Black Skies (21 page)

A
kram’s truck broke down twenty miles from the Chitral Valley. Conley and the rest didn’t know it at first, huddled in the back of the truck. It had been a slow ride, during which the truck tipped to this side and that, going over terrain so uneven they wondered whether they were on roads at all.

This truck was entirely enclosed, so they didn’t get a chance to peek out at the majestic beauty of the landscapes that Conley had seen in pictures as he researched the location of the mission. They just sat in the dark, hot, smelly interior, bumping into each other every time the truck lurched.

The vehicle stopped.

“Are we there?” asked Clutch, a short and thickly built black man with a round face, the team’s sniper. “I gotta take a piss.”

“Why don’t you use a bottle like the rest of us?” asked Mantis, the curly brown–haired explosives expert who Conley placed as Midwestern from his accent.

“Ain’t no way for a man to relieve himself,” he said.

Conley banged on the wall that adjoined the truck’s cab. He heard the passenger door open, and then the back door was unlocked. Blue-gray light poured in from outside together with a rush of cool fresh air.

“We’ve broken down,” Harun told them. “Akram’s going to take a look. It’s not a rare occurrence. If any one if you could help, it might get us moving faster.”

“Any of you clowns mechanics?” asked Conley. None of the others moved. Conley turned back to Harun. “I can fix a car in a bind.”

“Does that mean we can come out?” asked Clutch.

“We are hidden here from the main road,” said Harun. “But—”

“I’m gonna go piss off the mountain,” said Clutch.

The others moved to get out as well. Conley dropped off the edge of the truck last. Walker radioed their status to the support crew at Lambda headquarters.

Harun looked doubtfully at the others spreading out around the truck, but Conley said, “Let them. They’re going to kill each other if they don’t get some air.”

They were on a rocky ledge overlooking the Chitral valley, and it occurred to Conley that he lived for sights like these. They were high on the mountain, and the verdant valley spread out below in a patchwork of cultivated plots like something out of the Middle Ages. At the far end of the valley he saw the Kunar River, its water an astonishing light blue against the gray rocky riverbed.

It felt good to have the hard ground beneath his feet, after sitting on the metal floor of the truck for so long. Everything ached, and worse now that he was moving and in the cooler outside air. He stretched and jogged in place to get his circulation flowing.

“All right, let’s take a look at that engine,” he told Harun.

Akram had already opened up the hood of the truck and had his head buried inside.

“Have you checked the battery?” asked Conley in Urdu. He realized that he didn’t have the vocabulary to talk car mechanics in the language. They worked by pointing, miming and showing, trying to figure out different possible causes of the breakdown.

After half an hour of trial and error, Conley took a break and found Walker smoking on a boulder and sat next to him. He took a deep swig of water from his canteen. “I think it’s time we went over the coordinates to where Haider Raza is supposed to be and lay out our plan of attack,” he said.

Walker put out his cigarette on the rock and stood up. “All right,” he said. “My stuff’s on the back of the truck.”

Conley got up and they walked over together. “Listen,” said Conley as Walker rifled through his bag. “I think we got off on the wrong foot before. Maybe if we just—”

“I don’t want to know you, man,” Walker interrupted. “I just want to be done with this mission and get out of this shit hole. All right? Now, let’s get this done.”

“All right, let’s.”
Asshole.

Walker pulled out a plasticized map and laid it out in front of them. Conley recognized the Chitral valley. “This is where we are,” he said, pointing at the map.

“Yeah,” said Walker. “I see it. Raza’s supposed to be at a farmhouse here.” He pointed to a location to the northeast of where they were—not too far as the crow flew, but the road down the mountain was winding and treacherous. “We have to get close without being seen. There’s mountains here, maybe there’s somewhere for us to hide. I’ve got some satellite pictures, hold on . . .” Walker shuffled through his bag.

Conley scratched his chin. “Akram!” he called out. “Come here a second.” The Pakistani got down from the truck and jogged over to Conley. Conley waved him over to look at the map, and pointed to the corner of the map where the farmhouse was located. “Do trucks go here?” he asked in Urdu.

He seemed to need a minute to decipher the map, then it seemed to dawn on him. “Yes, sir, they do.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Many times.”

“Good. Sorry to interrupt you. I’ll be back to help you with the engine in a second.”

Akram walked away. Walker asked, “What the hell was that?”

“He says it’s not rare for vehicles to go that way,” said Conley. “We can ride this truck almost to their doorstep.”

“Okay,” said Walker. “Look.” He had found the satellite images. “The terrain is higher along here—there’s a small ridge, some rocks. It’s right by the farm. We can hide out and run surveillance.”

Walker had a good eye for strategy, Conley thought. It was a good position, and it took wit to find it on the satellite photo. “Sounds like a plan. Get close, then watch for any sign of the Secretary.”

“If we ever get there,” said Walker, motioning toward the truck. “If we get this piece of crap moving again.”

Conley looked around once more. The Lambda team was lounging, a couple of them playing cards. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, but the sky was still blue. They still had hours of light left. If the problem was fixable, they’d make it. If not—well, they’d cross that bridge when they had to.

He went back to help Akram and Harun with the engine. After another twenty minutes of tweaks and Akram trying to start the engine, Harun found the problem and Akram fixed it with duct tape, which made Conley nervous about what else might have been fixed with duct tape. But there was no use worrying about that—they had no other options. This time, when Akram turned the key, the truck came back to life.

Before they departed, Conley showed Harun, on the map, a spot beyond the ridge where they could stop, and Harun coordinated with Akram to get them there. Then, everyone piled back into the back, Conley last, and Harun closed them in. They were off. It was a short, bumpy ride to the valley floor, and then another hour of mostly smooth sailing. The Lambda team sang dirty ditties until Harun banged on the back of the truck cab, either because they were near civilization or because he just wanted them to shut up.

When they came to a stop and heard the engine cut off again, no light was coming in from the tiny cracks in the truck anymore. Harun opened the back door, and they saw that night had fallen.

“This is where you get off,” said Harun, “And I turn back.”

“You’re not coming?” asked Conley as he hopped off the truck and pulled his pack along with him.

“I’ve done my part,” said Harun. “Akram and I want to be as far away from this as possible when it happens. Come here, old friend.” He pulled Conley in close for a hug. As they embraced, he whispered, “Watch out for these men. I do not trust them, and you should not, either.”

Harun climbed into the back of the truck and Akram executed a ponderous U-turn, returning from where they came.

“Watch them go straight to Raza and tell him where we are,” said Walker as they watched the truck roll away.

“We should have killed them and left their bodies in a ditch,” said Mantis.

“Let’s move out,” said Conley.

 

It was a dark and moonless night. They had been left in a crook of rock that shielded them from prying eyes. They would have to walk about a mile in open farmland to reach Raza’s villa, and the night would provide the cover.

They walked a couple hundred yards up the side of the mountain, single file, and found a protected outcropping to hide out behind and run surveillance. Walker radioed in their position to headquarters. “Have the evac chopper ready. Tell them to home in on this location.” He was promised that it would be within two minutes of them at all times.

“Who’s running our getaway?” Conley asked.

“A couple mercenaries with a Mil Mi-8.” That was unsurprising. The Soviet-designed Mil Mi-8 was one of the most popular helicopters in the world, and was in wide civilian use. It was certainly easier to get and less regulated than a Black Hawk.

“Who are they?” Conley pressed.

“Who cares?” said Walker, and that was that.

The team got out their night vision and remote surveillance gear. Conley had his binoculars, which would serve. They were within a mile of the house, with a wheat field the stretched nearly all the way to their location. The lights were on and the windows plainly visible against the darkness. Conley looked through the binoculars.

The house was not small, probably boasting some four or five bedrooms and having some touches of ornamentation like a row of simple columns and rounded arches, but it was mostly plain, single-story and built of exposed stone. Conley saw two men inside, and thought he saw a Kalashnikov leaning against a wall. They spent nearly twenty minutes surveying the compound, in silence except for a few brief exchanges.

It was Mutt who spotted him first. “That’s him. Holy shit, that’s him! Second window on the left, look fast!”

Conley looked through his binoculars. The beard had been trimmed, but the face was unmistakable.

Haider Raza.

“We’ve got the bastard,” said Bluejay.

“Call it in, Walker,” said Conley.

Walker already had the radio in his hand. “We have positive identification. I repeat, we have positive identification. It’s Raza. We’ve got the bastard.”

“Copy. Proceed with caution, Walker,” came the crackling voice from the radio communicator.

The excitement was palpable, but the team’s eagerness made Conley uneasy. “We need a plan of attack,” he said.

“The plan is we go in and kick ass,” said Walker, inspecting his sidearm.

“We need to confirm that the Secretary of State is in there,” said Conley.

“We’ll do that
after
Raza and his men are dead.”

“Walker, Jesus Christ—” started Conley, losing his patience.

“We’re going in now,” said Walker. “You want to stay behind, you go right ahead. Team, move out.”

They filed out around the outcropping and out of sight. “Goddamn it,” Conley whispered. He found his tactical vest in his pack and strapped it on over his rumpled white button-down shirt. Then he fished out his Beretta M9, pocketed two extra magazines, put his seven-inch tactical knife in its leather sheath, and set off after them.

The night was dark, and he could hardly make them out about twenty yards ahead. It took them less than a minute to reach the wheat field. Walking through the wheat was noisy and the stalks whipped at Conley’s hands. A rising wind made the plants bow and blew dust in his face, but at least masked whatever sound they might make. The house loomed larger and larger up ahead.

A low stone wall marked the edge of the wheat field about thirty yards from the house. The team crouched against it, looking over at the three windows that faced them. Figures walked past the windows too often to allow an approach this way. Walker signaled for them to move north along the stone wall. They crept forward, crouching to keep out of sight. Conley unsheathed his knife and clutched it in his hand.

Walker stopped up ahead, and made a sign that a hostile lurked outside beyond the wall. He signed for Bluejay to take care of it. Bluejay drew his handgun, which had a suppressor attachment. Even with the suppressor, it could very well have alerted the whole house to their presence. Conley motioned to Walker and held up his knife. Walker understood and motioned Bluejay to stand down.

Conley peeked over the wall and saw the man walking a few feet beyond the corner of the house, where a row of arches began. He had an AK-47 in his hands, slung over his shoulder, and was looking in the direction of the road—away from them. This would be child’s play.

Conley propelled himself over the low stone wall and landed on the other side with hardly a tap of his feet. He crept to the side wall of the house to stay clear of the line of sight of the windows. On reaching the corner, he looked around it to make sure this was the only hostile. The side of the house was otherwise empty.

Conley made his final approach in five quick strides. The man heard, but had no time to react before Conley pulled his head back and slit his throat. He held the man firm as he fell, setting him on the ground. He got a look at the man’s face as he gurgled his last with his darkness-adjusted eyes. By his wispy beard, he couldn’t have been older than twenty. The man’s blood soaked Conley’s tactical vest down to his white shirt.

He signaled to Walker, and the team moved out toward him. Conley skulked along the row of columns at the side of the house. He pointed to the door nearest them. It was wooden and looked weak and partly rotted. Walker signed for Mutt, Clutch, and Mantis to go around and take the windows, while he, Bluejay, and Conley took the door. He gave them the count of ten to make their move.

Conley braced for entry, sheathing his knife and pulling out his Beretta. Bluejay was poised to kick the door in, while Walker had his Uzi submachine gun ready to fire. Conley counted the numbers off in his head.

Walker gave the signal after the ten seconds had elapsed, and Bluejay kicked the door. It swung open with a bang. Conley heard gunfire from the side of the house—outside, and not inside. It was a good sign.