Recall

by David McCaleb

  Chapter 22

  Obstacles

  The stairs to the basement were rough-hewn slate, cold and dusty. Sharp brown and orange rocks were mortared into the walls. Red followed Lori down, ducking the AK-47 slung over her shoulder. Its barrel waved across his face each time she took a step.

  The basement was large with a hotel-sized washing machine. It smelled of moist earth and something else that clung to the back of Red’s throat, like a hint of pepper spray. The furnace sat in a sunken area that resembled a seventies-era conversation pit. No windows. A single bare wood door, looking like an oversized Williamsburg window shutter, was on the far wall, padlocked. Jannat slipped a key from her pocket and opened it.

  Inside were several racks of uniforms in various colors. It was like a military thrift store, though much better organized. Similar uniforms were grouped together and civilian clothes separated. Chevrons and insignias were piled on a white plastic table.

  “How’d you get all this?” Red asked.

  “My girls steal it. I pay them extra. I tell them I sell it on the black market.”

  Jim walked by a section of naval uniforms. “Stick with Artesh. Marksman and Lori, get a clean blouse.”

  The team stripped down and pulled on drab green fatigues. As Red pulled off his boots, the last remnants of the Pardis dropped onto the dirt floor. Lori was unbuttoning her blouse in the far corner. He picked up one end of a clothes rack and pulled it over, making a changing room.

  Marksman tossed Crawler insignia with three diamond-tipped chevrons and a rocker at the bottom. “Thanks,” Crawler said. He looked at them in his open hand, then closed his fist so tightly that the tendons stretched. He threw them back, hitting Marksman’s chest. “Prick,” he said.

  Must still be failing his master sergeant exams.

  Red pulled on a too-tight boot. All the larger ones were taken, and he certainly didn’t have the largest feet of the group. He patted his chest pockets, feeling naked without body armor. Lanyard pulled up his T-shirt. Two bruises discolored his belly, one large and gruesomely purple. “That must be the one you felt.”

  “I felt all three,” he said, twisting around as if trying to find another.

  They carried only weapons and ammo. Jannat didn’t have any small arms, so they’d have to carry their M4s and pray they didn’t need to take off the chdors. Jannat’s hands shook as she attached a veil over Red’s face. The veins on her hands stood out. They looked paper-thin, old. The dim light reflected from her oily skin, which smelled sweet, like honey. Her upper lip lifted on one side, as if she were trying to smile. Her breath stunk of garlic as she spoke. “Veils are not often worn. But some tribes do. Don’t walk close to each other. Try not to look like a group.”

  Jim had Ali save his Ketamine and took Jannat up on her offer of heroin. Crawler and Jim held the prisoners while Ali shot them up, then stuffed them into the market baskets, sideways in the fetal position.

  Jannat pulled out a frayed paper map and placed it on the earthen floor under one of the lights. Everyone stood around her as she squatted over the map, the bottom of her red dress fringed with yellow dust. She pointed to the location of the house and the pickup point for their transport. “One truck, a refrigerated one with a picture of fish on the side. That’s what they use. Go through the market, here. We’ll not be noticeable among all the people.”

  Jim’s thick index finger followed a different route over the map, then punched down. “The trucks from last night. They here?”

  “Yes.” Jannat tapped the same spot.

  “If we get split or the transport goes bad, that’s where we rally.”

  A click sounded in Red’s ear. Covered in a chdor, he’d forgotten he had it.

  “Comm check,” Jim muttered.

  Thumbs-up from everyone.

  Jim put Jannat in the lead. He and Carter tailed her, carrying a basket with one of the prisoners between them. “Red, you and Lanyard follow after the drivers. If they run, shoot ’em. Marksman, make sure they understand.”

  Red walked up the stairs, glancing back at Lori. He wished she could walk in front so he could watch her. At the top, through a window, he saw an orange glow behind the Tehran skyline, reminding him of the dark silhouettes of the trees during his cold morning runs. Their skeletal lines, though bare in winter, had always given him a sense of energy, just before the sun peeked out and warmed his face. The hard edges of these buildings were cold, unforgiving. Yet, both shared the same backdrop. What was it that drove humanity to such misunderstanding and violence? Was he part of the problem? He pushed the thought from his mind. Now the only thing to do was get Lori home safely. Get everyone home safely.

  The cold air from the street pricked his skin. He walked through occasional warmer pockets, the timid heat rising from the heavy stones underfoot. He looked over his shoulder. Lori was still there, but too far back. Crawler looked like an elephant under a black sheet waddling before him. The group was entirely too large. They should have left the traitorous drivers to burn back at the warehouse. Now they were just dead weight, slowing them down.

  Jannat kept a brisk pace, welcome in the cold. Jim had given her a comm since she was in point. At least with comms they could communicate if they lost visual.

  The rope handle dug into Red’s hand. The basket creaked as they walked. He tried to get out of step, to look more like two normal women carrying produce to the market, but Lanyard kept synchronizing his strides.

  The market wasn’t crowded yet, but vendors were raising umbrellas and sweet pastry smells filled the air. All the alleyways they passed had several people headed in their direction.

  “Four soldiers,” came Jannat’s voice through the comm. Red stretched his neck to look. She’d already passed the men in uniform. Their rifles were over their shoulders, but they looked more interested in the stand of steaming pastries.

  “Keep moving,” Jim said.

  Red kept his nose down, but his eyes looked ahead. Jim and Carter passed the soldiers without a glance. Red held his M4 straight down his belly, leaning over to ensure it didn’t poke out of the ch-dor. He was careful not to make eye contact. Jannat had said that would be improper. One of the soldiers was smiling as he looked at a pastry with honey-brown glaze. His boots were highly polished. Could be a desk jockey pulled from his paperwork to look for them. Red strained to keep from glancing back, but had to turn his head. Lori was still there.

  Crawler had just passed the pastry stand when his foot slammed against a stone. He stumbled, but continued. The noise from his boot made two of the soldiers turn their heads, but only one did a double take. He turned toward Crawler and looked at him as he walked away. Taking a couple steps in halfhearted pursuit, the soldier shouted something.

  “Keep going,” Marksman commed. “He’s telling you to stop.”

  The soldier shouted again.

  “Ignore him,” Jim said.

  More shouting. Crawler kept up his pace but the soldier quickened, too. Now the other three were following.

  “He’s looking at your feet,” Red commed. “He sees your boots.”

  “These ain’t old-lady-sized,” Crawler said.

  “He’s not giving up. Take down?” Marksman asked.

  “Nothing unless he stops you,” Jim said.

  The soldier jogged to catch up with Crawler. One of his buddies put a cell phone to his ear. Red slipped his free hand forward and rested a finger on the trigger guard. There was no good way this was going to play out.

  The soldier stopped and reached out to grab Crawler’s shoulder, then fell to his knees as a 9mm hole puffed silently out through Marksman’s chdor. A second later, the man fell forward onto the river stone pavement.

  “One down,” Marksman said. Red hadn’t even seen him reach for his sidearm.

  A woman was raising a faded red umbrella over a stand of oranges and grapefruit. She turned toward the clatter of metal hitting stone as the body fell atop its weapon. The other soldier kept the phone to his e
ar, backing up till he stumbled over a basket of bread. A white-haired woman with furrowed skin yelled at him, while the other two ran toward their fallen comrade.

  “Heyvoon! Gom sho!” the woman shouted, picking up the trampled wares.

  The soldier with the phone looked at the crowd, ignoring the vocal woman. His gaze met Red’s. He dropped the device and reached for his AK, shuddering and falling atop powder-coated pastries as Red placed a three-shot burst into his chest. Brass tinkled to the ground. Shit, I wasn’t as discreet as Marksman.

  Red picked the basket back up and kept walking. Loud footsteps from dress shoes on stone ran away behind him. “Two down, but he was on a phone,” Red commed.

  In a few more seconds panic would break out. They could make their escape in the chaos. He pushed the basket toward Lanyard, aiming them to the next alley. A woman in a gray wool peacoat and black hijab over her head trotted into the market, a cell phone pressed to her ear. She passed a squat man with a unibrow thick enough to use as a comb-over. He stared down at a video camera, panning across a box of yellow chicks.

  The two last soldiers reached their fallen comrade lying in the middle of the market, looked down and said something to him, laughing. One tilted his head, then dropped to a knee and rolled the dead soldier over. His eyes widened and they shouted at each other, looking around. They pointed folded-stock AKs toward Crawler and yelled.

  Crawler spun and from under his chdor came a deafening stream of muzzle blasts. His covering blew into shreds, revealing an extra-large brassiere stuffed with a blue towel over green fatigues. His square frame braced against the recoil of the weapon. His veil blew out, exposing an unshaven face with a cigar butt clenched between smiling teeth.

  “Break off!” the colonel commed. “Rally at secondary. Meet at our trucks. Red, keep track of the drivers.”

  Red crawled atop a display of apples. Their sharp, green scent reminded him of helping Tom make hard cider last fall. Over the displays he saw Salar and Navid sprint into the next alley as many in the crowd dropped to the ground. He and Lanyard grabbed the basket and ran. At the end of the block, he turned to head them off. One ran across the opening ahead. As the other came into view, two red plumes sprayed from the driver’s chest, followed by the reports of small arms fire.

  Red ducked behind a dusty green hedge at the corner and signaled Lanyard to fall in behind him. He strained to hear footsteps over the screams and shouts coming from the market. A balding gray-haired man with a little potbelly trotted across the alley, carrying a 9mm. When he stopped at Salar’s body, Red dropped him with a double tap, then glanced around the corner. A crowd from the market that had been running toward them stopped when the man went down. None of these were in uniform, but then neither was the man who’d shot Salar and Navid.

  Red ran to Salar. Lanyard took position at the corner of the hedge, covering their tail. Red pushed the potbellied man off him—the guy was heavier than he looked—then rolled Salar onto his back. Blood was seeping from his chest. His eye wasn’t wandering now. His pupils constricted as he faced the sky. Red searched his pockets and found the truck keys. He put a finger to Navid’s neck. The pilot had no pulse.

  “Got the keys,” he said, lifting the basket.

  Lanyard jerked his head at Salar. “One still looks alive.”

  “He’ll be dead soon.” Only a few more blocks lay between them and the trucks.

  Red commed as they ran, “Salar and Navid are dead. We’ve got keys. Be there in two.”

  “Hurry up,” Jim said. “We’re all waiting.”

  They turned another corner and saw the first vehicle at the end of the alley. They yanked off their chdors and shoved them behind a moldy stack of cardboard boxes. Several other chdors from the team were already there. The only other person in view was a street down and walking away, a man in brown slacks, apparently unaware of the chaos a few blocks over.

  The side of the first truck dropped and Crawler and Marksman rolled out. Red threw one set of keys to Crawler, hoping it was the right one.

  “Marksman, get us to the airport,” Jim snapped. “Red, drive the second.”

  Red opened the door and slid across the seat, snagging one cargo pocket on the stick shift. Only a few hours ago he’d seen the plume of steam rising from the vehicle’s hood. He hoped the engine was still warm enough to make a fast start. He punched the clutch and turned the key, then tilted his head back and said, “Thank you, God,” as the engine fired. He raced the motor but it sputtered off, the truck shuddering. He turned the key again. This time the engine cranked for several seconds before it came to life.

  Crawler was pulling away. Red eased the gas this time and the engine revved slowly, but kept running. “Shit,” he muttered. Were gear patterns universal? He moved the stick to where he thought first would be. The shift box resisted with a crunching sound.

  “Like the farm,” he whispered. “Grind ’em till you find ’em.”

  “What?” Lori’s voice.

  Red snapped his head around. She was climbing into the seat beside him. “Where’d you come from? Get in the back!”

  “What if we hit a checkpoint?”

  “I’ll run ’em over. You don’t look Iranian, and I can’t protect you up here.”

  She waved the barrel of her AK-47 toward the windshield. “Stick a rag in it and drive the damn truck.”

  Ahead, Crawler was almost at the end of the block. Red popped the clutch, snapping her neck backwards. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

  “I’m not the one who went ape-shit at Walmart and blew your cover.”

  Red’s face warmed despite the cold draft coming from the door. What was she hiding? “Maybe if I had a wife who’d told me I had a cover . . . maybe then—”

  Her voice softened. “Red, we decided it was best.”

  I’m the husband! Shouldn’t we include me? “Who the hell are you talking about? You’re a control freak. Or wait—” He frowned. “Did we include whoever you’re carrying a tag for?”

  She shook her head. “Red, you know why I’ve got a tag.”

  “No, I don’t!”

  Lori frowned. “But—”

  He jabbed two fingers at his head. “Didn’t get the memo. Had a memory issue for a while. No damn clue why my wife’s a national asset. It sure as hell isn’t your cooking.”

  The comm clicked in his ear. “Plug it,” Jim’s voice crackled. “I can hear you two bitching all the way back here.”

  Would he ever know Lori? Could he? Why was he trying to rescue someone who’d helped hide his past? Who was behind all of it? But she was the mother of their kids. That much he remembered, with fondness. He’d promised them he’d get her back. He could do that. The rest would have to wait.

  “I’ll get us to the airport, but we’ve got no pilot,” Marksman commed.

  “We’ll take one hostage,” Jim said.

  Red smiled and jabbed his comm. “Sir, we’ve got a pilot.”

  Lori palmed her mic and snatched the comm out of her ear. “You better not be talking about me!”

  Red yanked his out as well. He whispered, “Stick a rag in it and drive the damn plane, dear.”

  “You’re such an ass!” she hissed. “That was before I even met you. In my twenties!”

  “You said you flew twins.”

  “Ten hours of cockpit time, Red. Turpboprops, not jets. I never even qualified.”

  “You had your license before that. Singles. Might be a turboprop at the airport. You can get us off the ground.”

  “Shit, Crawler could get us off the ground. It’s landing that’s a bitch.”

  Crawler’s truck slowed at an intersection and turned onto a busier road. Red stopped at the corner, then gunned it to keep up. Lori was looking out the window, the corner of one eye shimmering, hands clasped, fidgeting as if playing thumb-war with herself.

  Red patted her knee. “Sorry. But for real, we need you. It’ll come back, just like things did for me. With enough clear runway, you�
��ll do great.” Red slipped the comm back into his ear.

  Jim was calling his name. “What happened?”

  Red looked at Lori. “Um, communication issue, sir.”

  “What did you mean, we’ve got a pilot?”

  “Lori used to have her license. Got some twin engine time. She’s rusty, but if we can’t hijack a turboprop, she’ll fly us out.”

  Chapter 23

  Takeoff

  Crawler shoved the shift lever forward to where third gear should be. The handle wobbled. Was it even in a gear? He released the clutch and the truck jerked like it’d been hit from behind. What a piece of crap. Not that American trucks didn’t have loose linkage, especially the older, well-worn models. But give him a good ol’ AM General Duece-and-a-Half any day over this Iranian shit-box.

  Marksman pointed to a green sign, scrawled in something like Egyptian hieroglyphics. “Take a right on Saeedi Highway.”

  Crawler squinted at the signpost. It looked like one of his ink blot tests from Dr. Genova. “Where the hell’s that?”

  “Just go right.”

  “Give ’em to me like that,” Crawler said. “None of that other crap.”

  He rolled down his window and adjusted the side view. Red was keeping up, though Crawler noticed he had trouble at intersections, lurching his starts. The engine knocked. He hadn’t heard it last night, sitting in the back. Sounded like a bad exhaust gasket. Vapors coming from the firewall confirmed it.

  A white Mercedes with a blue stripe passed going the other way. A block down, it made a U-turn.

  Crawler glanced at the mirror next to Marksman. “Sorry to interrupt your fun.”

  Marksman slid down in his seat, planting both feet flat on the floor. “It’s not what you think. Jannat and I are business partners.”

  Crawler ignored the distant white-and-blue car. Probably headed to the market where he’d just saved everyone’s ass. “Yeah. Right.”

  Marksman put an arm across the back of the seat, the wrist as thick as an axle tube. For an old guy, he looked like he could still hold his own in a fight.

  “Make it whatever you want.” Marksman swept a hand across a dusty green dashboard. “But I’ve been married thirty years. Like hell I’m going to throw that away on some whore. She’s pitiful. You imagine being the pet of that general?”