He reminded himself of that even as he called out to her. “Doc. Hey, Doc. Gimme a sec.”
Ten feet away, Julie looked back at him. “You don’t have to call me Doc.”
The address was one of respect. Marines only used it for corpsmen they had been under fire with.
“Yeah, I do.” Pike walked over to join her. “I want a do-over.”
“A do-over?” She had crossed her arms and kept herself distant. “What if I said I didn’t believe in do-overs?”
“Then I wouldn’t blame you. I rarely ask for them. So the ball’s in your court.”
The smile peeked out again. “What do you want a do-over for?”
“For dinner. I’d like to take you up on that.”
“My offer’s been withdrawn.”
Pike grinned, liking her moxie. “Okay, so let me ask you to dinner.”
“Why?”
“I need a reason?” Her defenses almost cracked at that one. “So we can eat.”
“Not interested. Believe it or not, Private, there are a lot of Marines I can eat with.” Julie turned to go.
“Doc, I’m sorry. And that’s something I try to never say. So if you’re not gonna accept it, that’ll be it.”
She stopped and looked at him. For a moment he thought she was going to still walk away, and he told himself he didn’t care. That would just be the end of a bad day. No sweat. He’d have another one tomorrow.
“Lucky for you, I’m hungry now and don’t want to eat by myself or go looking for more tolerable company.”
“Understood.”
“And for the record, I came looking for you because I was impressed by the Marine I saw who was taking care of that little boy today. A lot of guys like the idea of being the hero, but all you were concerned with was that boy. I liked the selflessness I saw.”
Her words made Pike feel awkward, and he started thinking maybe he should have just let her walk away. “Maybe you saw wrong.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I’ve had my share of bad boys, Pike. I know you’re one of those too, under the right circumstances, when you’re pushed or backed into a corner. We’re not going to visit those circumstances tonight. I didn’t come here looking for that guy. I’d rather be with the guy I saw carrying the boy earlier today. This is dinner—and maybe a chance to get to know someone else. My life’s open to new experiences. I learn more that way. And since I’m in the people business in the medical field, I want to learn more about people. You’re a person.”
Despite his misgivings and the way her words echoed Towers’s earlier comment, Pike smiled. “As simple as that, huh?”
“Life can be pretty simple when you get in there and learn to accept things. I have.” She shrugged. “Plus, I like your ink. What is that?” She peered at his shirt collar. “A dragon?”
Self-consciously, Pike pulled at his shirt. The Marines were strict about ink. If it wasn’t covered by a blouse, Marines had to get their ink removed or leave the corps. His neck tat, barely covered usually, must have shown through at some point. “Yeah. A dragon.”
“Cool. I like dragons.” Julie nodded to his duffel. “Why don’t you stow that and let’s get dinner?”
“All right.”
“We could eat in the mess hall, but I figure a guy who wears a dragon around his neck probably has an adventurous spirit. If you do, I know a couple places that will be open tonight. No beer, since
we’re in a Muslim country, but you can sample the native cuisine. Ever been to Afghanistan before?”
“I have. Helmand province.”
“We’ve got a few places with Indian food if you like it hot. You go to the Mumtaz Restaurant, it can be pricey. Especially after today. But I know a few small cafés where we can eat for a reasonable price.”
“Sounds good.” To his surprise, Pike was looking forward to the meal.
“GOOD EVENING, GENTLEMEN.
My name is Gerald Benton. I’m the point man for the Central Intelligence Agency regarding three agents who have gone missing and are believed to be in the hands of Zalmai Yaqub. To add to that, earlier today Yaqub kidnapped an American journalist named Jonathan Sebastian. Together, we’re going to track down and lock down Yaqub.”
Seated in the fourth row of the conference room, Heath Bridger watched the CIA agent with increased interest. Heath knew the reporters had been targeted during the al Qaeda attacks. He’d helped recover some of the bodies of those men and women. There had even been whispers that other reporters were taken during the attack on the Noor Jahan Hotel.
Heath also knew Sebastian from television news. The man was a die-hard right-winger, as close to a war hawk for operations in the sandbox as any politician was. Sebastian held the opinion that the United States should finish cleaning up the mess in the Middle East, including a heavy drop into Syria and Iran to quiet those areas as well. The reporter constantly railed against the dangers of the Arab Spring and how it was going to upset political stability around the globe. Heath was of the opinion that the “political stability” Sebastian championed was thinly veiled economic interests.
Benton was average-looking. His hair was neither too long nor too short, and the color was hard to figure out even when looking at it. His face was long and didn’t show much expression. He could have been anywhere from his midthirties to his midfifties. Gerald Benton probably wasn’t his real name. Most of the guys in the CIA had cover identities. There was nothing memorable about him. He was the kind of man who could enter a room or leave it and never be noticed.
He wore camos so he could blend in with the local military populace, but he didn’t wear them like a military person. His gig line wasn’t straight, and any Marine worth his salt would have been set up right when addressing an audience.
Benton pointed a remote control at the projector on a table in front of the big screen. “Video from the hotel provides more than enough to identify Yaqub and some of his associates.”
Heath brought up the files he had on Yaqub on his iPad. Intel had already come down on the man. Yaqub was known as one of the major players in Kandahar province. Heath matched the photos of the man with the video from the hotel. There was no doubt as to his identity or to the fact that Yaqub had shot several people in cold blood.
The footage paused a half-dozen times as Yaqub and his entourage strode through the hotel and killed the reporters. Each time the footage froze, a graphic popped up, matching Yaqub’s features to similar photos from military intelligence archives. Heath had seen most of the images before. What those images hadn’t been able to show was the cool dispassion that Yaqub exhibited while gunning down helpless people. The man was ice cold and totally lethal.
Other graphics popped up to identify a few of the victims of the shooting.
“We believe Yaqub had someone inside the hotel.” Benton continued the briefing without emotion. “As you can see from this video, it’s apparent that Sebastian was the target.”
The footage, still without audio, showed more people going down under the al Qaeda guns. Although Heath had seen similar footage on other occasions—sometimes from military operations and sometimes while acting as third or fourth chair on one of his father’s trials when the firm represented drug cartels—the silent killing still unsettled him worse than being shelled by mortars. The sound and fury of war crashing around him was more understandable than the eerie quietness of the scenes on the monitor.
The video cut to another camera, this one in a hallway. Yaqub and his men walked down the hall and disappeared into one of the rooms.
The men around Heath shifted uncomfortably as the video sped up and the numbers showing the time and date flickered in a whir. Several minutes later, Sebastian walked out of the room behind Yaqub.
Downstairs, the other cameras picked up the procession as they walked through the front door, overlapping in quick cuts to follow Yaqub and his entourage. Outdoors, the exterior cameras trailed them to waiting SUVs where they loaded up and took off.
“The Afghan National Police made contact with Yaqub and his people once more, to no avail.” Benton’s voice was flat and empty as he relayed the information.
The lethal confrontation on the street played out, and there were a few shots of Yaqub’s vehicle disappearing.
“We lost Yaqub, but now we’re going to get him back.” Benton used his clicker and changed the image on the screen. “You’re all familiar with Sebastian and his work. The man’s a powerhouse in the media. Yaqub seized him so more attention would be drawn to his campaign here. As most of you know, we recently lost three agents in Pakistan.”
The screen flickered again, and the faces of three men were displayed there. All of them looked calm and controlled, office photos of men who had nothing to fear.
Heath knew that when—or
if
—those men were found, they would look nothing like the images on the screen. They’d been prisoners for days, and Yaqub and his associates wouldn’t have been gentle about their care.
“We’re operating on the assumption that Yaqub wants to make an object lesson of these men.”
The object lesson was an easy one to figure. Public execution at the hands of al Qaeda remained a preferred standard. Heath had seen a few of those videos and had come away shaken each time. Seeing men die like that was hard.
“I want those men back, and I want Yaqub brought down. He’s just pushed his way to the top of the Pentagon’s and POTUS’s most wanted lists. You’ll be given the particulars on these agents, and that information is
not
to be leaked to the media. If the time comes that Yaqub broadcasts that information to the press, you are to neither confirm nor deny the kidnappings of those men.” Benton used his clicker again.
Another image of Yaqub filled the screen, this one of the man at a much younger age. Holding an AK-47, he stood in the shadow of a taller man. The older man’s face was a war map of past engagements, lined and scored by violence. A scar bisected his right eyebrow and tracked down across his right cheek. When it had healed, it had pulled up the corner of his mouth. The left side of his face was pocked with scarring that looked like it was the result of a fragmentation explosive. His beard was shaggy and graying.
“This is Sabah al Hadith. He is Yaqub’s father. This picture was taken in 1992, one of the earliest we have of Yaqub and one of the latest of Sabah.”
More pictures cycled across the screen: Sabah as a younger man, leading warriors and talking to Americans.
“When the Cold War was in full force in the 1980s, the United States intelligence circle cultivated Sabah as an asset. In those times,
the enemy was perceived to be the Russians. Sabah was a hero to his people, and he’d been listed on Russia’s TOS agenda for years because of his ability to lead his men into battle.”
Heath studied the man’s features, respecting the force that Sabah must have become in order to achieve terminate-on-sight status. The fact that the man had remained alive throughout the Russian military campaign was even more impressive.
“When Sabah shifted his loyalties to al Qaeda, he remained on the Russians’ TOS orders and swiftly rose in our target lists. But he also brought with him a large number of experienced warriors. Our agency has only identified some of them, but we have confirmed that those men and their sons continued to follow Sabah.” Benton flicked through several images of Taliban warriors in the Kandahar mountain ranges.
The image shifted to a bombed-out metro area. Flames and smoke trailed from nearby buildings, but the one centermost in the picture had been reduced to rubble. American military units were closing in on the site.
“Based on intelligence given to us by one of our agency assets, we believed we had tracked bin Laden to this site. We hit the target with a Predator drone, then followed up immediately with ground troops.”
Another image flickered into view, this one of a windowless room with several bodies lying on the floor or scattered on furniture. Maps and photos covered the walls.
“Bin Laden wasn’t there when we hit the premises, but we only missed him by hours. The intelligence teams that covered the site confirmed that the location had been an intelligence center for the al Qaeda cell that was operating in the area—and that it was seeking primary military targets.” Benton gazed at the scene. “Breaking that site allowed us to save the lives of several military personnel and claim a few of bin Laden’s elite warriors as well.”
More pictures scrolled across the screen. Heath checked his iPad, making sure the information was reaching him as well.
“We also believed we’d killed Sabah at that time. The intelligence teams that went over the premises found blood and tissue samples that matched the DNA we had on file on Sabah. We also found one of his arms and one of his legs.”
The newest images showed those limbs encased in ice chests. For Heath, the visuals were too reminiscent of the horror that had taken place in Kandahar’s streets earlier.
“No one believed Sabah could have survived the attack. We didn’t close the book on him, but we felt reasonably certain that he’d been terminated.
“After Sabah was believed killed, some of his warriors returned home to sit out the current war, leaving the conflict up to bin Laden and al Qaeda. Bin Laden and his people lost a significant weapon in their arsenal. That brings us to Yaqub.”
The new image on the screen showed a much younger Yaqub smoking at a small outside café. Text at the bottom of the photograph listed the location as Paris.
“Until his father’s apparent demise, Yaqub had been attending the Paris-Sorbonne University. As it turns out, he wasn’t there to get an education. He was being groomed, learning the mind-set of his father’s new enemies, exposing himself to Western ways and culture, and firming up partnerships outside Afghanistan. Our agency kept tabs on him at that time, but he was a small fish. No one expected Yaqub to become a major player. Then, after his father was targeted, Yaqub vanished.
“Since that time, Yaqub has been back here shoring up his strength, committing himself and his followers to al Qaeda, recruiting those old warriors down from the mountains, consolidating their power base. Every time we chipped away at al Qaeda, taking down
one leader after another, we’ve made it easier for Yaqub to make his power play. The inroads we’ve made in this country, the foundations for freedom, are being threatened on several levels. The Afghan people know that America is making preparations for pulling out and leaving them on their own. Too many of the Afghan politicians, military, and police are backsliding and attempting to align themselves with the Taliban and al Qaeda. You people already know that. Some days you’re taking your life in your hands by working with the ANA and ANP.”
One of the captains at the front of the room raised a hand. Benton recognized the man, and he spoke. “We’re not going to be able to control what the Afghan people do once we’re gone, Special Agent Benton, and controlling the people in this country has never been the goal.”
“You’re right.” Benton nodded agreeably.
“Then, other than this attack and the hostages that have been taken, why is Yaqub so important? I understand the need to rescue those people if at all possible.”
“We have two objectives in addition to the search and rescue operation. One: we see Yaqub as a threat for consolidation in the area. If we take him out, then some of the command structure he’s put into place will fragment. Some of those hard-liners from the mountains will pull back, hopefully sitting out any further involvement. His people aren’t as structurally sound as the rest of al Qaeda. But if he’s left to his own devices, our intelligence tells us that he’ll become a major factor in the future of this country. Whatever the future of Afghanistan holds, we prefer it not have Yaqub as one of the components.”
Benton’s face hardened and his gaze was more bleak. “Two: our intelligence also indicates that Yaqub is a larger threat than we’d first believed. The three agents we had across the Durand Line in
Parachinar were there to assess the threat level the Pakistani government is going to pose as the military shuts down more operations in Afghanistan. While they were there, they picked up on a Russian arms dealer in the area who has been supplying al Qaeda. Prior to those men being captured, they had pushed information on to our agency that Yaqub had become a client.” Benton paused. “We’re not sure of the exact nature of the weapons Yaqub and his people have gotten their hands on, but we do know that a lot of it is high-end offensive weaponry. We want that controlled, and we want Yaqub’s source shut down.”
Heath took that in. Like the military men around him, he wasn’t surprised by the news. Al Qaeda had a lot of money backing them. That was how they had been able to embed themselves in several nations when they pulled back from the initial American intervention in Afghanistan.
But the prospect of all the civilian casualties, which the tangos were all too ready to spend, left him feeling sick. Several of today’s victims had been women and children. Back home, people talked about the war and the cruel nature of the enemy they were up against, but the media kept most of the horror away from the American audience.
Some of that violence had been kept in check by American and Western military personnel putting themselves on the front line. Now that line was growing thinner. The Marines left on the ground inside the country were at increasingly greater risk.
And right now, his team was part of that vulnerable contingent.
The screen changed once more, this time to the hard, mountainous terrain where Afghanistan butted up against Pakistan.
“We’re going to get Yaqub, gentlemen, and we’re going to shut him down. But we’ve got to do it before he gets back across the Durand Line and into Pakistan.”
One of the young lieutenants seated beside Heath shook his head and snorted derisively. “Yaqub’s probably headed for Pakistan like his tail is on fire. He knows we’re going to be gunning for him.”