Project StrikeForce (24 page)

“Fuck this guy. You heard the news? That shit in
Germany? Your cousin was in on it. He’s dead.”

Abdullah’s heart sank.
No!
Shahid and
Mahbeer were supposed to escape and join him!

Manny turned to him and grabbed his shirt. “You
got Hector killed? Why would you do that?”

Abdullah calmly placed his hands on Manny’s
shoulders. “I am sorry, Emmanuel. Your cousin was a good man and a good Muslim.
He was martyred.” He turned to the men. “What of the others?”

The big man said nothing, but a smaller man with a
goatee spoke up. “Yeah, some other dude was killed, too. They hunted them down
and killed ‘em both. That’s what they been saying on the news!”

Abdullah stepped back. He had lost both young men,
Shahid and Mahbeer. He felt their loss, like a physical blow, but he knew the
precarious situation could quickly spiral out of control. “They were both
martyrs. They died as heroes.”

Manny shook him by the lapels of his suit. “You
fucking crazy pendejo. We should shoot you now.”

Abdullah felt Manny’s loss, but tried to reason
with him. “If you kill me, my people would send their heroin elsewhere. I
thought you liked the steady supply, that it was safer than dealing with the
cartels.”

The big man nodded slowly and lowered his gun. “He’s
got a point, Manny. I know Hector was your cousin, but we got business with his
people. We can’t kill him.”

Manny held him tight, squeezing the fabric of his
shirt, then sagged forward and relaxed his grip. “You’re right, we can’t kill
him.” He glared at Abdullah. “You live because we need those drugs.”

“Of course,” Abdullah said gently. “May I go? I’d
like to get changed before we cross.”

The goateed man led him to the bathroom where he
changed into denim jeans and a heavy black t-shirt. When he returned to the
living room, most of the men were busy playing video games. Abdullah watched
silently, but he did not understand the point of the game, other than it
involved shooting large monsters with different kinds of weapons.

The big man, Carlos, approached. “C’mon, we got to
get you across.”

Carlos led him to the basement, a featureless
concrete box, a metal filing cabinet in the corner. Carlos pulled on the metal
cabinet and it opened on a hinge, revealing a hole in the concrete wall that
led to a shaft with a makeshift elevator.

It was nothing more, Abdullah noted, than a welded
together metal box with a winch on it, but Carlos opened one side and motioned
for Abdullah to get in. He followed, closed the door, then activated the winch,
which make distressing grinding noises while dropping them slowly to the tunnel
floor below.

Abdullah was amazed. They had carved the tunnel
out of the ground, an opening large enough for a man to walk through, with
metal beams evenly spaced and plywood holding up the ceiling. There was a big
pipe leading down the tunnel for ventilation and a string of lights. Metal
rails led off into the distance, and an electric cart approached on the track,
piloted by a bald little man.

The cart came to a stop and the man smiled and
pointed to the flat bed and said something in Spanish. “Rafael says to get in,”
Carlos said. “It’s six hundred feet to the other side. We don’t usually ship
people, but for you, we make an exception. Manny’ll be right behind you.”

Abdullah smiled. “His cousin was very brave to do
what he did.”

Carlos glared at him. “Where we from, cousins
means something. You understand?”

Abdullah nodded. “I understand.” He got on the
cart and the little man flipped the lever and the electric motors hummed as the
cart sped down the track, leaving Nogales, Mexico behind and entering Nogales,
Arizona.

The other end of the tunnel emptied into a small
cinder-block room. The little man grinned at him and pointed up, then pointed
back down the tunnel. Abdullah waited as the little man hummed off into the
distance and soon returned with Manny.

Manny grunted and Abdullah followed him up an
aluminum stepladder and into a darkened warehouse. A fat man greeted them and
Manny smiled. “Sup, Julio?”

“Sorry about your cuz,” Julio said. “This him?”

“Yeah. Is it ready?”

Julio pointed to the dark blue Ford Taurus in the
first bay. “Got a full tank of gas.” He handed Manny a set of keys.

They got in the car and Julio opened the rolling
metal door. Manny slowly pulled out, glancing in both directions, then turned
the corner and headed for I82, out of Nogales toward Dallas.

* * *

Area 51

“We’ve got something,” Karen said.
“Chatter among the Jihadist websites.”

Everyone but John was in the briefing room. Karen,
between chugging vast quantities of coffee, was excitedly showing how she had
found the images that might lead them to Abdullah. Nancy, Deion and Clark
watched the explanation, Clark without comment and Deion with the occasional eye-roll
and blank expression. Nancy sat ramrod straight, her face hard.

Eric’s pulse sped up as he pointed to the wall
display. “Show me.”

Karen clicked over the decrypted images. “These
are instructions to the Mujahideen. It looks like they’re providing an escort
across the Pak border into Afghanistan. The US has stepped up patrols in the
south, so it’s probably going to be near Jalalabad.”

Eric turned to Deion. “The ISI?”

“Yeah,” Deion said. “That’s no man’s land. Real
rugged area. The tribes go back thousands of years, they don’t trust outsiders.
The only way the ISI operates is because the tribes allow it. They’ve either
got sympathizers or tribesmen in positions to stop any kind of reform.”

“Yeah, I’ve had some operations in the area, we
couldn’t prove they were helping the Taliban, but we suspected. The CIA have
any contacts we can exploit?”

Deion shook his head. “Nah. The government doesn’t
know shit and they don’t want to know. Plausible deniability.”

“Can you get a team in?” Clark asked.

“Not likely,” Eric said. “What about on the Afghan
side?”

“Not without involving the CIA,” Deion said. “What
about you? You said you did some operations up there. You still have any of
those contacts?”

Eric thought about that. Yeah, there were a few
that might talk to him. Maybe. “This is the first solid lead we’ve had. I’ll
head to Afghanistan with John and see what I can dig up.”

They filed out of the room, but Nancy held him
back.

“I want to go,” she said, her arms crossed.

“No. I need you and Deion here. We still have the
missing caesium, remember? We can’t spread ourselves too thin.”

Her face was red, but she avoided his gaze. “You
can trust me.”

He sighed. “It’s not a matter of trust. You’re a
woman. That would be a problem where I’m going. Don’t read anything into it.”

She grabbed him, her hand clenching his shoulder. “I
said you can trust me.”

He spoke slowly. “It’s nothing personal, Nancy. I
mean that. If I thought you couldn’t handle it, I’d tell you. Do you believe
me?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m sorry about what
happened in Afghanistan. I want you to trust me, to count on me.”

He took her hand from his shoulder and clasped it
tightly in his. “Help Deion. Find that caesium. That’s all I ask.”

* * *

Bagram AFB, Afghanistan

They made the flight in record
time. Greg Clayberg had pushed the Gulfstream to its limit, and they left him
on the tarmac to turn the plane while they prepared for the chopper flight
outbound to the mountains.

Eric heard the booming voice behind him. “Shit. Is
that Wise I see?”

He turned and smiled. “Good to see you, Redman.”
He embraced the dark-haired Operator in a fierce bear-hug.

Bill ‘Redman’ Barton was a solidly built Georgian
and Eric liked and respected the man. Redman was one of the best Operators he
ever worked with, and he could count on him no matter what the mission.

Redman glanced over at John, awkwardly watching
their reunion. “Who’s this?”

John stuck out his hand. “John Frist. I’m with
him.”

Redman glared at him. “Is that so?” He broke into
a big grin. “Hope you do better than your other friend.”

Eric laughed. “Thanks. You really came through for
Deion.”

Redman joined in Eric’s hearty laughter. “Anything
for you, brother.” He leaned in closer. “Look, I don’t know what happened after
you got burned, but you’re up to something. I can smell it. You need help?”

Eric considered his offer, then nodded. “Actually,
yeah. I could use some backup, somebody I can count on.”

John gave him an odd look, then walked away.

“What’s his problem?” Redman asked.

I
’m wondering the same thing.
“No
idea. I’ll talk to him before we leave. Look, the thing I’m doing now, it’s
beyond classified. You choose to go, it never happened, understand?”

Redman’s eyes widened. “What have you gotten
yourself in to, Steeljaw?”

Eric grabbed his hand. “You wouldn’t believe me if
I told you, brother.” He gave Redman a quick breakdown of the mission and
Redman left to requisition the needed gear. He tracked down John and found him
standing near an aircraft hangar door, watching flights take off.

He stood with him, roasting in the heat, the
stench of JP-8 heavy in the air. “Nervous?”

John shrugged. “No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m sick of this,” John said. “I don’t want to do
this anymore.”

What the hell?
It was the last thing he
expected to hear. “What are you talking about? Is it about what happened in
Denver? The men you killed?”

“It’s not Denver,” John said, shaking his head.

“Germany? Everyone hesitates. Even me. You can’t
blame yourself.”

“It’s not that, either,” John said, “it’s
everything. It’s too much.”

We don
’t have time for this.
“Pull
yourself together. We’ve got a mission. We’ve got to find Abdullah and make him
pay.”

“Pay? How are we going to do that? Throw him in a
hole somewhere? Torture him? Or are we just going to put a bullet in his head?
We are not above the law.”

“Sometimes we are. We’re the good guys.”

John watched him with hollow eyes. “We are?”

Eric’s temper flared. “Knock this shit off. We’re
flying out soon. Get your head right. If Abdullah escapes, if he kills any more
people, those deaths are on us. You get that? They’re on
us
.”

John nodded slowly. “I got it. It’s on us.” He
turned and headed for their chopper.

he Blackhawk banked hard and John
leaned into the turn as they rounded the mountainside, navigating through the
terrain toward the Pakistan border, on their way to Tora Bora.

He watched as Eric and Redman checked their gear,
the easy way they worked together. He could tell Eric worried about him, but he
wondered what Eric would do if he knew the truth. A bullet to the head,
perhaps. Or maybe Eric would just open the door of the Blackhawk and throw him
out.

He had deliberated, since his memories had
returned. The Office clearly had no use for the man he was. They would probably
try and brainwash him again.

They might just kill me.

He could not escape. They would follow him
anywhere in the world. No, he was stuck. Eric’s words gnawed at him. If he
could help catch Abdullah, wasn’t it his responsibility to do so? Would Abdullah’s
victims weigh on his conscience?

He was so tired. He thought for a moment about
opening the door of the helicopter and stepping out. A few seconds of blissful
peace and his suffering would end.

Eric’s words haunted him, like the victims of the
Red Cross bombing who haunted his dreams.

No, Eric was right. They had to stop Abdullah.

The Blackhawk finally came down low and hovered,
the downdraft blasting dust and dirt in a hazy circle. Eric signaled to a
waiting man, a young Afghani. The helicopter touched down and they jumped out
with their gear, the chopper kicking up another cloud of dust as it took off,
heading back to Bagram.

Eric smiled broadly at the man. “Ali. It’s been a while.”
Eric turned and introduced them. “Ali and I worked together in ‘01. You’ve
grown since then. How’s your father?”

Ali grabbed Eric and hugged him, smiling. “He is
good, Mr. Eric. He complains a lot, but he eats well.”

Eric laughed. “I remember. It will be good to see
him.”

Ali led them through the hills to the largest stone
building in the small village.

Once inside, Eric was glad to see Ali’s father,
Wahid, sitting at the table waiting for them. He pulled his gloves off and
shook the man’s hand. “Peace be upon you.”

Wahid was the leader of the local tribe and a
former Mujahideen. His family was well-respected, and while Wahid was a good
Muslim, he disdained those who justified murder in the name of Allah. Wahid
smiled and shook his hand, then put his hand over his heart. “Mr. Eric. It’s
been too long. I thought you forgot us.”

“Wahid, these are my friends.” Eric introduced him
to John and Redman, both of whom removed their gloves to shake his hand. “I
brought you something.” He pulled a small stash of chocolates wrapped in a
silver foil and handed it to Wahid, whose smile grew bigger. “A little
something for that belly of yours.”

Wahid laughed and slapped his belly. The man had
grown larger, his hair shot through with white, but he still appeared healthy
and strong. “Please, sit. Ali, bring us tea.”

They sat in the rickety wooden chairs, drinking,
and Eric found the tea exactly as he remembered, sweetened from raw sugar and
with a savory aftertaste. The rest followed suit and Wahid nodded approvingly.
Eric and Wahid exchanged pleasantries until Eric judged that he had satisfied
the Afghani requirements for honor. “Wahid, I need your help.”

“Is it to hunt Bin Laden again? It did not work so
well last time.”

“No, it is not about Bin Laden. It is another man.
They call him Abdullah the Bomber.”

Wahid’s eyes widened. “I know this man, from a
long time ago. He fought with the Mujahideen when he was young, younger than
Ali when we hunted Bin Laden. He had a gift. What has he done?”

“He’s attacked our men, here and in Germany. What
can you tell me about him?”

Wahid shrugged. “He left after the war. He might
have gone back to his country—”

“His country?” John asked.

Wahid laughed. “His grandfather was a very
important man in Afghanistan, but after the King was assassinated, he found
himself at odds with the new king, so he fled with his family to Saudi Arabia.
When the Mujahideen needed fighters, his grandfather sent Abdullah. Abdullah walade
Muhammad Younis.” Wahid bowed his head, lost in thought. “A smart boy and
devout Muslim. Like his grandfather.”

Finally, a name.
Eric smiled. “We need to
find him. He’s going to kill a Taliban leader named Azim.”

Wahid’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard of
General
Azim. Why do you want to help him?”

“We don’t want to help him,” Eric said. “We want
Abdullah. We think some of the Mujahideen might help him cross the border.”

Wahid glanced around. “Here? No, he would cross in
the South.”

“I don’t think so,” Eric said. “Perhaps you could
find out?”

Wahid paused. “Mr. Eric, this is no business of
mine. Things are quiet now. Why go looking for trouble?”

“Abdullah is a bad man. He bombed our wounded in
Germany, men and women receiving medical care. Hundreds died.”

“Mr. Eric, this pains me greatly. It is against
Islam to hurt the wounded. Still, I do not know these people.” Wahid shrugged,
but stroked his beard slowly.

“Some of the dead weren’t soldiers. Some were
local Germans. Women. Children. They were there for free medical care. Just
kids.”

Wahid stopped stroking his beard. “I’m sorry, Mr.
Eric. I cannot be seen helping you.”

Eric understood. Wahid was a good and just man, well-respected
and well-liked, but he also had a village to feed and protect. His involvement
could invite the wrath of the Taliban or Al-Qaeda, the same groups that Wahid
and his family had fought against just a few years before.

No, it was not Wahid’s fault. The man had went in
to battle with his own sixteen-year-old son to hunt Bin Laden, and now Ali was
twenty-one, probably ready to marry, and Wahid himself looked to be approaching
fifty. Wahid liked him, but that friendship had limits.

“I understand,” Eric said. “I’m sorry to have
troubled you.”

“It is no trouble to host a friend, Mr. Eric. You
know that. Please, stay and eat. I would be most honored.”

John caught his eye and glanced to the door, but
Eric shook his head. “It would be our pleasure.”

They exchanged pleasantries, whiling away the
time, and when they did eat, the food was remarkable. The skewers of grilled
lamb were exceptionally good, and Eric noticed that John and Redman both helped
themselves to plenty, wrapping the lamb in pieces of thin bread. He joined in
some banter between Wahid and Ali, and it felt good to spend time with them. He
remembered the hours they spent hiking through the western edge of the
mountains during the battle of Tora Bora. It was good to see Ali growing into
manhood.

“We have to leave soon,” Eric finally said. “It’s
an hour back to the extraction site.”

Wahid clasped him by the shoulders. “I hope that
you will come back. It is good to see you, Mr. Eric.”

Ali led them back down the mountain to the
extraction site. They could hear the beating of the chopper’s blades approaching
when Ali handed Eric a slip of paper. He read the note from Wahid and smiled,
then turned to John and Redman. “Ali is going with us.”

Ali nodded. “I’ll show you the way.”

* * *

John opened the two large plastic
cases in the fading light. The VISOR gazed back, its soulless face watching. He
stripped quickly to his socks and briefs, shivering in the cold. He was in the
mountains, not far from where Ali had led them. Eric and Redman were already on
their way to their sniper positions leaving John to suit up.

He pulled on the pants and fastened them at the
waist. They were tight, but the advanced composition fabric quickly warmed to
his skin. He took some deep knee bends and stretched his legs to get the pants
fitted, then pulled on the undershirt and jacket. The modified harness system
came next, snapping and clicking into place, providing extra protection in his
crotch as well as his chest. He strapped the pistol holsters to both legs and checked
the pistols themselves, the modified M11’s lighter than normal, then holstered
them. He put on his combat boots, one of the few stock items, then loaded the
hard points of his battle suit with his medical kit, extra magazines for his
pistols and rifle, and an old fashioned Ka-Bar knife that slid in a molded
sheath on his right calf.

He took the HK from the other case and checked it.
It was so new they had yet to give it a name. It fired a 7.62mm NATO round, had
a thirty round magazine, and featured a laser and optic site that integrated
with the VISOR.

It made him a one man killing machine.

Lastly, he picked up the VISOR and activated the
clamshell. He took a deep breath and put it on, closing it, and for a brief
moment he felt suffocating panic until the display came to life. A cool wash of
air caressed his face as the environmental system came online, the smell of
plastic and charcoal fading swiftly. The screens blazed to life, the desert
illuminated in full and vibrant color. The HUD showed his stats, the link
between the Implant and the VISOR, the thirty rounds in the HK, and then the
communications package came online.

“Eric?”

“I’m here.”

The VISOR displayed Eric’s position on a
topographical map

“Redman, too.”

Redman’s position popped on the map. Both men were
on the move.

“Clark?” he asked.

“I’m here, John,” Clark said, from half a world
away. “We’ve got a drone over the area relaying signal and we’re capturing
video from the VISOR.”

John concentrated and the map shrank, replaced
with a live feed from the drone. He concentrated again and the video zoomed in
until he saw himself standing in front of the two cases. He waved up and the
man in the video waved up as well.

He concentrated and the screen changed again. He
saw Eric, a ghostly white figure, at a fast hike nearing a ridge. The screen
changed again and he saw Redman doing the same. He zoomed out and saw their
objective, a natural depression on the desert floor, hundreds of feet across,
surrounded by piles of stone and the remnants of several bombed-out trucks. In
the center of the depression stood a stone bunker, built by the Mujahideen
during the war with the Soviets. It had been bombed and rebuilt over the years,
and Ali assured them it was still in use.

He started hiking and the VISOR plotted his
course, the GPS guiding him to his destination. The pace was quick and his body
moved smoothly, the months of training helping him eat through the miles of
hard rock scrabble.

While his body was engaged in moving through the
desert, his mind was restless. He kept replaying the Red Cross bombing, his
terrible actions, and the actions of the Office. Eric had been so helpful
during his training, always willing to answer every question. Eric had been his
friend, he thought, but it was all a lie. Eric’s job was to turn him into a
killing machine.

Is that me? A killer?

He arrived at his destination, not far from the
rock stronghold. Twilight had faded and the sky was black. The stronghold
appeared deserted, but he knew better. Surveillance had shown different men, four
at last count, entering and leaving over the day. He checked Eric and Redman’s
positions and found they had reached their positions.

“We’ve got a truck on visual,” Clark said. “We’ve
tracked it as it crossed the Pak border. We believe it contains the target.”

“How far out?” John asked.

“Five kilometers,” Clark said. “Moving slowly,
should be there in twenty minutes.”

“Should we hit them when they arrive?” John asked.

“Negative,” Eric said. “We don’t know who’s in
that truck.”

“If it’s just AQ,” Redman said, “my vote is for a
missile strike.”

Eric laughed. “Copy that, but our mission is to
find Abdullah.”

They waited in silence. John watched the drone
data, the video of the truck bouncing over the rough foot-trail now used as a
road. When it was within eyesight he turned off the drone data and turned on
the VISOR’s night vision mode, the world alive in ghostly greens and whites. He
activated the thermal overlay at ten percent and saw a heat bloom from a
rodent, hiding quietly near his feet. He tossed a small pebble and saw the heat
bloom scurry off into the distance.

Smart mouse.

The truck finally reached the fortress.

“Look alive,” Eric said

John was crouched just a few hundred meters from
the building. He kicked up the amplification of the VISOR and saw the truck
come to a stop.

There were three men in the truck and two in the
back. The men in the back were heavily bearded with thick wool caps and patos
over their shoulders along with their AK-47’s. They jumped from the bed of the
truck and looked around, scanning the desert.

He crouched lower but knew that his black
Battlesuit was invisible in the night. The passenger opened the door and got
out, but the driver’s body obscured his face. All John could see was his cap.

“You got an ID?” Eric asked.

“No,” John said. “Driver’s in the way. Hang on.”
He rose and moved quickly for a better view as the driver came around the
truck, the men in back joining him. He had gone twenty meters when he got a
glimpse of the passenger. The details were blurry through the VISOR but John
could see the man was clean-shaven.

They entered the stone building and the door shut,
opening again soon after, as the two men from the truck bed exited the building
and started patrolling the area.

“Eric,” he said. “The man didn’t have a beard.”

“That’s not a lot to go on,” Eric replied. “Did
you get any audio?”

“Nothing I could understand. Clark? You get
anything?”

“Karen is cleaning it up.” There was a pause.
“Unable to make an ID.”