SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (29 page)

Do they never repair any roads in this asshole country?

When the vehicle stopped, the back doors opened, and they found themselves inside a dimly lit space. Two men helped them down; both wore the unmistakable stamp of CIA mercenaries. The paramilitary clothing, complete with shoulder holsters and ice cold stares, as hard as the steel of the weapons inside the holsters, was more than a giveaway. They may as well have worn id badges. The light was so poor they could hardly see the sides of the almost empty warehouse. Almost empty, apart from the jingle truck. The vehicle itself was by far the brightest object in the room. It was based on a medium size commercial truck, but the similarity to a Western counterpart ended there. The bodywork was painted in a gaudy blaze of color, reds, yellows, oranges, greens, and blues of every shade. Chains hung down from the front fender, and Nolan knew they would jingle like crazy as they made their way along the poorly maintained roads. Maybe it would help keep them awake. It was going to be a long drive. Over the cab, a semi-circular arch had been constructed with more decorative artwork and wind chimes hanging down. It was like some monstrous sun canopy. A sun canopy when the truck was moving with the sun behind it. Otherwise it would be useless, except for the sound effects. Nolan nodded to the nearest CIA man.

“Does it run?”

“Sweet as a nut. It’ll get you there, and back if you want.”

Nolan nodded but said nothing.

“This is Wes,” the operative continued. “He’s the makeup and disguise king. If you’d like to step into the cab of the jingle truck, he’ll show you how everything works. His stuff is all in there, and there’s a good interior light, so he can get to work on you and make you look like a raghead. Only problem is, one of our guys might start taking pot shots at you, but there you go.” He shrugged. “It’s a chance you have to take.”

Nolan wasn’t sure if he was making a joke. He decided he wasn’t. He climbed into the truck, and the other guy, Wes, climbed in, spent a minute showing him the controls and pulled a make up box from behind the seat. When he switched the light on, it was enough for the man to see his work by, and he spent a half-hour working on Nolan’s face, neck and hand color, his hair, and gluing a false beard to his chin.

“How long will this stay on?” he asked the guy.

“Long enough. Mind you, the last one who wore one of these got himself killed, so he didn’t need it for too long,” the man grunted.

Very funny! Thank Christ Mariko can’t hear this.

He finished up by winding a turban around Nolan’s head, and he was done. When Nolan climbed down from the truck, Mariko was waiting for him.

“You look good, real good, Kyle. I’d take you for a native any day. What do you think?” she asked the first CIA operative.

He grunted, “Yeah, I guess I’d shoot him if I caught him in my sights, so he must look pretty good.”

They both gave up.

“You want to see the false compartments, buddy?”

“I would. Was it difficult to get them welded into the chassis?”

“Didn’t have to do a goddamn thing. Most of these trucks smuggle goods both ways across the border, and they all have false compartments fitted. Mainly, they’re for show. They know they’re there, but it’s the bribe money that’ll get you across. This way, the border guards can pretend they weren’t aware you were carrying anything.”

Nolan checked underneath, and the guy showed him how the hatches could be opened. Inside, his Mk 11 rifle and an MP7 had been stowed, with supplies and ammunition. There was also a metal box of grenades, and no one made any comment when Nolan took out two of them and stuffed them inside his robes. There was a small leather case for documents. He took out his and Mariko’s Afghan ID cards and the satphone to check them over. Satisfied, he got back in the cab and started the engine. The motor fired straight away.

It’ll do.

It sounded as healthy as they could expect. He nodded at the two operatives.

“It all looks pretty good, thanks. We want to stay here until an hour before dawn. Is there somewhere we can get some rest?”

“You don’t stay here, buddy, not if you want to get to somewhere in Pakiland by anytime tomorrow. The trucks like this one that carry NATO supplies clog up the passes, and you’ll be queuing for hours just to get across. You need to go now and drive through the night. You’ll cross while it’s dark if it’s not too busy. That way, you’ll be able to get where you’re going. Otherwise, you can easy add an extra day. You seen the roads over there?”

Nolan shook his head. “Not lately.”

Christ, this isn’t a great start.

“It’s a lie.”

He stiffened. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a lie, to call them roads. They ain’t. I wouldn’t use ‘em to send pigs into a pigsty back home. I’d get going if I were you. You’ll need all the time you can get.”

Nolan nodded and climbed into the cab. Mariko got in the other side. The two CIA operatives opened the street doors and watched dispassionately as they drove out.

“Chatty pair,” she said to him. She sounded as if she was smiling, but he couldn’t see.

“Yeah, they obviously enjoy their work.”

They drove off in a deafening crescendo of diesel engine noise and rattling chains. Every nut and bolt on the bodywork seemed loose, adding to the cacophony. The exhaust leaking diesel fumes added to their discomfort. They tried to ignore the irritations, and Nolan drove grimly through the night. Four hours later, they were at the front of the queue to cross into Pakistan, high in the mountains, so high that the air was thin. It took an effort just to breathe in the chill night air. It was a small border town called Torkham, three miles west of the highest peak of the Hindu Kush, and lined with refreshment stalls selling everything from food and drink to girls, boys, and as much raw opium as you could carry. An Army officer stepped up to the truck and signaled them to get down. Outside the truck, a soldier stood with his rifle trained on Nolan. He spoke to them in a mangled dialect of Pashto and Urdu, and Mariko whispered, “He says we are smugglers, and we are under arrest.”

Nolan did his best to feign ignorance as the officer began shouting in his face. Then Mariko intervened. He could hear the pleading note in her voice and knew she was doing her best to persuade him to release them. He replied with more shouted abuse, and when she interrupted him again, he backhanded her to send her sprawling to the ground. In time, Nolan remembered where he was. This was Muslim Central, where women were chattels and of less value than a horse or a goat. He forced himself not to draw his Sig and shoot the guy on he spot. Instead, he helped her up.

“I think he wants a big bribe,” she whispered. “Do you have money in your coat? If we have to go to the hidden cache on the truck, he’ll take the lot, and probably seize the truck as well.”

“I have five hundred dollars ready, loose in my pocket.”

“Okay, get it out, and offer it all to him. Try to look deaf, dumb, and stupid.”

“I’ll do my best,” he murmured. He dragged out the money, a creased bundle of notes, and offered it to the officer. The man’s eyes lit up. Then his expression sobered, and he shouted at Mariko again.

“He says it is an insult, and it will cost us double if we want to get back over the border.”

“Yeah, tell him it’s just the one-way rate we’re looking for. We don’t need a return ticket. Next time we’ll cross in a gunship and unload a few thousands rounds of ammo on his stinking border post.”

“Schh. Get in the cab and drive. And smile at the bastard, as if you’re grateful.”

He grinned and nodded at the guy. But his eyes were not smiling.

The next time we meet, you’ll be staring at the wrong end of my gun barrel. You fuck with Kyle Nolan’s girl, and you better start saying your prayers, motherfucker.

He drove on, down the N-5 National Highway that linked the Hindu Kush and Afghanistan to the thriving Pakistani city of Peshawar. The road was as poorly maintained as most of the highways in Pakistan. That is to say, there was no maintenance, only potholes that were filled when the locals could be bribed or cajoled into coming out to do some hard work. Despite the rutted road, the traffic was heavy, even in the early hours of the morning.

“Why the hell don’t they maintain their highways?” Nolan grumbled, as he constantly wrestled with the wheel, trying to avoid yet another hole that could potentially fracture the rear axle.

“This route, the N-5, is Pakistan's longest highway. It runs from the port city of Karachi to the border crossing back there at Torkham,” Mariko explained. “Its total length is over fifteen hundred kilometers, from Karachi through Hyderabad, Gujarat, and Rawalpindi. It runs through Peshawar before entering the Khyber Pass and reaching the border town of Torkham. It’s one of their most important roads, so if you think this is bad,” she said, he thought she was grinning but he couldn’t read her expression through the mesh of the burqa, “you should see the others.”

He grunted. “Any idea of how long we have to drive?”

“About four hours if nothing goes wrong. We should be there just after midday.”

“That’ll give us a few hours to run this guy to earth. When we get there, I guess we’ll just park up and go knocking on the door of the local water company.”

“If they’re not on their four hour lunch break. They don’t like to work long hours over here. After the morning shift, these folks are pretty much finished for the day, but a bribe should bring them out of the woodwork. And if that doesn’t work, you can do the other thing.”

He nodded.
Damn right I’ll do the other thing. Jesus Christ, what a shithole!

He was exhausted by the time they reached Abbottabad, but the exhilaration of being close enough to the target to almost spit in Riyad’s face gave him new life. There was a truck park outside the town, and Mariko arranged the payment of five dollars to persuade the watchman to look after their vehicle.

Probably about five times the going rate, but what the hell, at least we’ll still have four wheels when we get back.

When Mariko asked him the directions to the water company, he looked disgusted that a mere woman had spoken to a man such as him, a high-ranking car park security guard. He spoke to her like he was talking to a dog, and she dragged Nolan away before he hit the guy.

“Take it easy. That’s the way these men treat women around here,” she whispered urgently. “You need to act like it’s normal. Otherwise, they’ll wonder who the hell you are.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll kick his ass to hell and back on the way out.”

“Fair enough, but I’ve got directions to the water company, and it’s not too far away from here. Let’s see who we can bribe there to give us the address of Danial’s family home.”

It took them less than five minutes to reach the Abbottabad Water Company Central Office, with Mariko walking behind Nolan and whispering directions to make it look right. Like most places, other than the homes of the wealthy, the building was crumbling and badly maintained. They went through the front door and found themselves in a reception hall. A man stood behind the single counter. He looked to be in his twenties, and he gave Mariko’s burqa clad form a friendly nod as she approached.

Nolan smiled to himself.
That’s different! Maybe they aren’t all misogynist scum around here.

She talked with him for several minutes, and then Mariko gestured for Nolan to step back with her, out of his hearing.

“It’s astonishing. We’re in luck.”

“About time something changed for the better,” Nolan acknowledged.

“Yes, well it has. When I mentioned the name Danial Masih, everything changed, and he was very suspicious at first. But I made it clear there was no problem. I just had a message from Danial to give to his son. It turns out this guy actually is Danial’s son, which I guess is not surprising. Families tend to work for the same company. He runs the central office. There are other staff, but they’re not here. I guess they’re on the four hour lunch break, but he’s more conscientious.”

“Does he know yet his father is dead?”

“No, I thought it best to tell him when we’re better acquainted. The question is, do we trust this man?”

He looked across at the Paki who was staring at them curiously. “Yeah, we’ll have to for now. If we can’t trust him, the mission will be a complete bust. Give it a try, and see how he responds. If he kicks up, I’ll have to take care of him.”

“Okay, I’ll try it.”

She went back to the counter, where the younger Masih was still watching them intently, and spoke to him in his language. At first, he didn’t reply, but then he looked across at Nolan and spoke in good English.

“You are not an Afghan, my friend.”

Nolan shook his head.

“American?”

He nodded.

“I see. You are here because of my father. Where is he?”

He took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Masih. He’s dead, murdered.”

The man nodded. It obviously didn’t surprise him. “Who killed him?”

“Islamic terrorists, probably al Qaeda. They kidnapped and murdered him in Kabul.”

“You didn’t come here to tell me this.” His expression was strange, and finally Nolan understood what it was. It wasn’t sadness; it was a deep, raging hate.

“No, Sir, we didn’t.”

“What do you want from me?”

“We need you to help us, to guide us through the underground tunnel system.”

He looked puzzled. “Us? Who do you mean? You two people? Why would you wish to go through the tunnels?”

“That’s classified, I’m afraid,” Nolan replied gently. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you at this stage.”

“Then I cannot help you.”

Mariko stood directly in front of him and touched his arm. “Mr. Masih, we’re real sorry about your father. We intend to destroy the bin Laden compound, to finish it off for all time, and kill any al Qaeda operatives we find inside it.”

He stared at her and then at Nolan. “You’re after Riyad.” It wasn’t a question.

Nolan sighed and nodded. “We are, yes.”

“His people killed my father?”

Nolan inclined his head. “Yes.”

“In that case, there’s no problem. I will help you. When do you wish to go in?”

“After dark, tonight. There are some of our people we need to meet up with. We have a truck to collect them and transport them to the entrance to the tunnels. Where is it?”

Masih opened the gate that led behind the counter. “Come, you can look at the map. It is inside the office.”

They followed him through the door into an inner room. On the wall, there was a large square map with colored lines indicating the routes of the main underground passages, pipes, and tunnels. He pointed to a thick green line.

“This is the main service tunnel. It is accessible. If you follow it here,” he pointed with his finger, “it travels along this route, branches off here, and here, until it reaches this point.”

He looked around triumphantly. Nolan was bewildered. “What’s that?”

“It is what you seek. The bin Laden compound.”

“And we can get there without any problems?”

“My name is Nazir. Yes, I can get you there, but there may be patrols in the tunnel system. People in the compound are very concerned for their security, especially after the American raid that killed Osama.”

“We’ll deal with the patrols. I understand that Riyad bin Laden may be using an underground command bunker, do you know anything about that?”

“If there is such a bunker, it would have to be accessed through the tunnel system, I suppose. Yes, it is logical, as a means of escape if they have to flee. I do not know of it, but if it exists, it should not be too hard to find. There is a service shaft that leads up into the grounds of the compound, so I assume it will be connected to that.”

“We’ll check it all out.” Nolan replied. “Where do we meet you?”

Nazir pointed with his finger. “Here, it is one of the old tunnel entrances, part of our storm drain system, and just over a kilometer from the compound. I can be there at nightfall. That will be about eight-thirty tonight. But listen; there is something you should be aware of. The Minister of Foreign Affairs is in Abbottabad, some kind of official visit. It means there will be added security, and even more patrols, so you should be very careful. This man has a residence in Abbottabad. It is quite close to the tunnel entrance, and there is no other way to reach it. Make sure you do nothing suspicious to alert the police.”

Nolan nodded. “We’ll keep a look out for any cops, don’t worry. Nazir, make it 2200, that’s ten o clock tonight. We have to have time to meet up with the Platoon.”

He stared again at the map and exchanged glances with Mariko.

There’s a wooded area close to the tunnel entrance. That will enable us to hide the jingle truck. We can collect the team and drive straight back. From there, say a half-hour to reach the compound through the underground tunnel system. Then we’ll begin the real work we came here to do. Start the killing.

She inclined her head and looked back at him out of the mesh of her burqa.

“It’ll work.”

They returned to the vehicle park, retrieved the truck, and drove out of town to the area of the LZ. It was an abandoned factory, built with American money to manufacture water pumps for remote areas. An ideal business venture for a third world country. One that could be exported to other third world countries to help them help themselves, but the Islamic terrorists had destroyed it and threatened death to anyone who tried to rebuild it or benefit in any way from the American investment. It seemed they were frightened that drinking water brought up by American financed water pumps may carry the taint of the infidel. Better for the civilian population to go thirsty and die, if necessary. Next to the bombed out factory was a weed strewn sports field, now designated as the LZ for Team Bravo. He parked up and they waited, sweating in the hot cab of the jingle truck. To get some shelter from the sun, he’d driven inside the burned out shell of the buildings, but it didn’t appear to lower the temperature much. Occasionally, Nolan patrolled the area to check for any signs of life, anyone who may be watching them, but the place was empty. Apparently, the locals had been sufficiently intimidated to prevent them from going near the place. It suited him. Back in the truck, they talked about home, and about their plans for the future. He found himself telling Mariko everything, even the mocked up images of him planting that bomb when Carol’s husband was killed. Nolan had never worked it out, only that it was a straightforward Photoshop job, not uncommon in the time of the Internet, and they’d used it to add to the damning evidence against him. But still, she was supposed to be his partner. Shouldn’t she judge him innocent until proven guilty? Mariko had removed her stifling burqa to be more comfortable, and he talked more about Carol Summers, and about the way she’d helped build the case against him that led to his arrest. She tried to defend her, pointing out that as a cop she’d see the evidence leading to Nolan as the guilty party and come to the inevitable conclusion. But he wasn’t buying any of it.