Swanson, with the NVGs, had a couple of seconds to react when he saw the smeared images approach, because they could not yet see him. He went to one knee and softly said to Beth, “Contact, front. Five targets, twenty meters. I take One, you got Two, just like we drilled at Quantico.” She locked into a firing position, ready to shoot over Swanson’s head.
The Taliban came hurrying forward in a ragged line, their eyes on the trail, bodies bent against the slamming rainstorm. Kyle fired when the first man was only twenty feet away, but the target’s forward momentum kept him moving even after he had absorbed a bullet in the chest. As he fell, Beth Ledford’s CAR-15 spat a silenced round into the center mass of the second man. Swanson, a moment later, downed a third one.
The fourth man in line realized something was happening and began to crouch. Ledford’s round smashed into his face and spewed bits of bone and brain onto the fighter behind him.
Because of the melee in front of him, the final fighter had a chance to react and was about to jump from the trail when Swanson shot him; the bullet penetrated under the right arm, and the round bored through the chest cavity, tearing up vital organs as it went. He died as he hit the mud.
“Cease fire,” Swanson said, waiting to be sure Ledford was through pulling the trigger before he stood up. Drawing his pistol, he advanced to administer the necessary final head shots. Then he just said, “Let’s go.”
Beth was breathing heavy, her breath puffing little clouds in the chill and rain. She had felt nothing for these people she had just killed; nothing at all. This time, it was almost like a video game, for the poor visibility and their positions had shielded their faces from her view, so they didn’t even look like real people. She just took the shots. Quick and easy, like clockwork; like Swanson.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
U
NDERSECRETARY
W
ILLIAM
L
LOYD
C
URTIS
was still working through the shock of having his request turned down by the ISI. Such a simple thing! The secret police apparatus of one of the world’s most paranoid nations had refused to let him borrow one of their men for a special mission of mutual benefit at a critical time. A favor, refused. He needed a drink, but not at one of the usual Washington watering holes.
Instead, his BMW M3 seemed to find its own way out of the metropolis, away from the government, as the flush of embarrassment turned to anger. Fuck ’em. Requests for favors were seldom refused in his world, and he would remember this insult. For now, he just wanted to blow off some steam. He could do that during his next appointment. Just outside of Williamsburg sat a tired building that had obviously been a working man’s tavern for many years, and a big American flag hung listlessly in the August heat. His kind of secret place, where he could revert to his old self, the rough construction boss, Big Bill Curtis, and have a conversation that he could never have in some fancy Georgetown watering hole. He parked in the broad lot, where several pickups and Jap cars sizzled in the afternoon sun.
He rolled up his sleeves two laps to display the faded tattoo of a rather pitiful-looking dragon that he had picked up one long ago evening in Singapore, then walked into the bar and straight to a stool. “Gimme a cold American draft, pal,” he told the bartender, who brought him a Budweiser in a chilled mug.
“Ya know why them Muslim fucks don’t drink?” he asked out loud, turning heads. “They don’t know shit about making real beer. How long they been sucking up air on this planet? A couple of million years, or something, and they still haven’t figured out how to make beer?”
That drew a few laughs and started the conversation. Bill Curtis joined in as he let the back part of his brain deal with the problem. The Diplomatic Security Service had told him to go screw himself. Then the paramilitary tough guys chickened out after two of their punks got popped by Kyle Swanson. Now the damned, camel-screwing ISI decided not to get involved in a job on U.S. dirt, although he was about to pull the trigger on a big operation of which General Gul was intimately aware. Gul was creating some distance between them because of the investigation that was sure to follow.
“Can’t depend on the muzzies,” he told his new group of friends after ordering a pitcher of beer and joining them at their table. “You understand, don’t you? They have money out the wazoo, they have the oil, but they can’t buy respect. Ever see one of those Saudi princes’ homes, where they paint the statues around the swimming pool with big red nipples or gold cocks?”
A fellow in a checkered shirt, with dirt under his nails, added, “Rodney Dangerfield had it right. Can’t get no respect.”
“They don’t deserve any,” Curtis declared, emptying another glass of Bud. Damn, it felt good to be in an out-of-the-way bar with a bunch of strangers, just to be able to bitch and moan without consequence. Everyone in there had a story about their wives, their trucks, their bosses, or politicians. His was different, and he could not share it.
“Want something done right, you got to do it yourself,” he said. It was that thought he would take back to Washington. Curtis called for another pitcher.
“You got that right,” agreed another man.
Curtis laughed. Now to business. He turned from the bar and walked toward a corner table where a man sat alone, sipping a Corona beer. He wore clean jeans and boots, a sweat-stained golf shirt, and dark aviator-style sunglasses. His brown hair was short and neat. “Buck?” he asked.
Astronaut Buck Gardener acknowledged him, and Curtis slid into the other chair at the dim corner table. “Where’s the money?” the astronaut asked.
“In the trunk of my car outside. Is the gizmo finished?”
“Ready. At a hundred thousand feet, it will automatically pop a spark to jump between two wires in the propellant feed system, and the whole flammable vehicle will blow up.”
“And you’re sure you can get it aboard? Absolutely?”
“Yep. I’m on the support crew and will make the final safety inspection before the bird is ready to fly.”
Curtis stared at Gardener, who did not blink. He was not backing out. A hundred thousand dollars was waiting in the parking lot, walking-around money, a million more coming when the device was planted, and four million more when his astronaut wife, Erin, her spaceship commander lover, and their fucking Mars rocket were blown into tiny pieces. Damned straight he would do it.
20
THE BRIDGE
A
YMAN AL
-M
ASRI OF THE
NMO and Sergeant Hafiz stood on a discreetly designed terrace in what was to become the new residence for Commander Kahn. Overhanging rocks made the deck invisible from curious satellites, and it provided an expansive view of the valley below. The leader could take fresh air here. “Savage weather,” al-Masri commented as the thunderstorm pounded the surrounding mountains. “So mean outside, but dry in here.”
“Another special touch from the chief engineer,” replied Sergeant Hafiz. “I’m glad you approve of the living quarters. Rather bare and Spartan, but it can be organized in any way that the Commander would like.”
“He prefers a very simple lifestyle, actually. Even a fast hare gets tired after a long chase. He needs rest, lots of rest, but he won’t slow down.”
A snap of lightning was followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. “Work topside has been suspended because of the weather,” said Hafiz, pleased that the security inspection was almost done. “The interior work continues. I propose as soon as the new engineers arrive, they concentrate on finishing out the living quarters and adjacent corridors and rooms. The other work can proceed then, with the Commander already secure, with everything he needs.”
“Listen to that roar,” al-Masri said, deftly changing the subject. “Is the river going to flood again?”
Hafiz gazed out into the thick curtain of falling water. “I doubt it. This storm is just passing through. The big typhoon system that caused all of the trouble had stalled in the mountains and rained like this for almost three months. This should pass on about dawn.”
“When we were young soldiers, you and I spent a lot of time out in these typhoons. I would hate to do so now.” The al Qaeda man shuddered at the memory of those cold, forlorn conditions.
“It is better to be inside.” Hafiz agreed, but a second later he caught the real meaning of the man’s words. “Yet someone must stay out on guard.”
Al-Masri glanced over, and the dark eyes were piercing. “Have you heard from your patrols? Either the one down in the valley or the one that you sent out in relief? It has been some time.”
Hafiz was honest, knowing a lie would be detected immediately. “Not yet. The storm is playing havoc with the communications, but if you are set for the evening now, I will get back to my other duties. I want to get some of the chief engineer’s assistants into the main control room to see if they can get it up and running again, at least on a minimal basis.”
“That would be excellent, Hafiz. My own people are ready for some sleep after our long journey, and we can finish the inspection tour tomorrow. I readily admit that I have been most impressed with what I have seen so far.”
“Well, I shall leave, then. Sleep well.”
“And you will check on those patrols?”
“Yes, of course. I was planning to do that immediately,” Hafiz said.
“Leave me a radio. I would appreciate you contacting me as soon as you discover what has been going on out there. Let us hope the problems are just due to the bad weather.” The sergeant placed his own handheld radio on a table and left the New Muslim Order security chief standing on the overlook, his hands buried in his sleeves for warmth.
THE VALLEY
K
YLE
S
WANSON
PLODDED UP
along the trail, his brain turning over possibilities while mud sucked at his feet and rain whipped his body. The storm was a tactical blessing, providing both some concealment and cover, but it was fucking miserable, and moving forward felt more like swimming than walking. He did not look back for Coastie. It was best to leave her alone with her thoughts, handing over an implied shame if she did not keep up.
Behind him, Ledford doggedly kept putting one boot in front of another, moving blindly in the curtains of wind and rain, fueled only by pride. She had not cracked yet, and she would keep going no matter what. Her mind pushed the physical discomfort and the aching muscles to a place where they did not matter, so she could get on with the job. Despite the cold, the muck, and the danger, she was excited. Some reptilian part of her brain was actually enjoying being a predator out stalking prey in the storm.
They were now within a hundred meters of the big bridge, and it towered above them like a medieval castle on a mountaintop. Huge slabs of stone had been set and locked into other monstrous rocks to form sheer, high walls that rose about ninety feet above the valley floor at each end and supported the massive arch over the swollen river. Waterfalls poured off of it in thick sheets. The lights high up top burned brightly and reflected through the spray to reach the churning clouds.
Swanson kept moving his head back and forth, checking for outside security and any dangerous areas. He no longer worried about the camera stalks and electronic perimeter devices. If they had not been activated in the past hour, either they had not been triggered or something was wrong in the circuitry. He slowed the pace to look around more closely, trying to find the entrance at the base of the bridge. Despite the map’s indication of such an opening, he saw nothing but bushes and solid rock. He removed the night-vision goggles for a better look. The muddy trail led straight into a thicket, which hugged hard against the wall. That last patrol had come straight down the path, so this had to be their route. There was no other way. He held up his fist, and they came to a halt, Beth moving up close.
“Straight ahead,” he said quietly. “What do you see?”
Ledford also removed her NVGs and stared hard at the terrain, each side, and up and down. “Nothing. Nobody.”
“The path disappears right into that line of bushes. Have you seen any other major trafficway? Something I might have missed?”
“Just rain, Gunny. That’s all.”
“OK.” He made up his mind. “You hang here and give me cover. I’m going forward and look around in that brush. There’s got to be some kind of entrance hole around. Those guys didn’t pop out of nowhere.”
“I’ve got your six.”
He grinned at her through the downpour, reached out, and slapped the top of her black beanie, a rolled-up knitted ski cap. “I know you do.”
As Swanson moved closer, he could make out more detail. The brush was almost like a fence that stretched some thirty feet across, and the spacing indicated they had been planted instead of just growing wild out of the weeds. Thick foliage in the middle, a tangled mass ten feet high, was reacting differently to the rain than did the brush clumps on either side, which were crushed down beneath the onslaught of the storm. This section remained firm, indicating that it was somehow anchored in place. He removed the glove from his left hand and reached out: plastic. It looked almost perfect from a few feet away, but it was as phony as a movie set.
Kyle put the glove back on and plunged both arms into the thicket, grabbing handfuls of plastic with each fist and pulling hard. It gave way so easily that he lost his balance and fell backward into the slime as the brush, mounted on a swivel, swung free.
Beth rushed forward as soon as she saw him go down, her rifle swinging in a 180-degree arc. “Gunny?”