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CHAPTER 10



The nightclub was like many others in Oktoberfest, it was packed with revelers, even if they weren’t celebrating in traditional fashion. Dancing and drinking and fumbling gropes were still ongoing at 2:00 a.m. local. A number of American airmen from Rhein-Main Air Base were mixed among the crowd, and a platoon of soldiers fresh from Iraq were taking a couple of days to unwind while the military sorted out travel arrangements. Rough German industrial music shook the structure, low guttural voices amplified to almost painful levels. It was unfamiliar to some, but to the soldiers it was definitely Western and definitely a sign of civilization. That in itself made it good. Add a few pitchers of rich German beer and tall, blond women in tight leather and spandex, and they loved it.

Where the bomb had been planted was a mystery that would take days to solve. Its size was easy to estimate. It had been ten kilograms of Semtex, somewhere toward the rear of the building, behind the steel cage and grated floor that served as a DJ booth. At 2:01:06, it detonated. The stylish metal cage, the grating, chunks of speaker magnet, cabinet, and grille all served as shrapnel. Not that they were necessary. The blast was sufficient, and contained by the walls for a mere fraction of a second, it propagated forward into the open dance floor.

Nine people were pulped or crushed to death by the explosion. Thirty-six others would bear scars from minor scratches to missing limbs or shattered faces. It was headline news on the Web and TV within minutes.


Kyle, Wade and Nasima were still walking at dawn. There wasn’t much else they could do. Luckily, all three were used to hoofing it, and their spirits were adequate. Though all three were nervous at every little sound in the desert.

“If we can get back to Hicheri, I know the area,” Nasima said. “We can get transport anywhere. But how can you cross the border?”

“We have papers,” Kyle said. As long as he could hang on to them. They were now rolled in a metal tube in his ruck, and he wasn’t putting it down. The briefcase could go, so could the weapons. But the radio, phones, and the papers were their link to home.

“Okay,” she said. “Then we will try to ride with a truck.”

Kyle broke out one of his hoarded MREs and the tub of shoestring potatoes. They shared them around, including the freeze-dried fruit salad and crackers. It wasn’t much for the gourmet, but it was calories and filling.

They lucked out shortly when a truck came by.

It was a truck like none Kyle had ever seen.

The bed had canvas over rounded metal bows, like a military carryall, but they were high-peaked and arched. Another bow angled forward half over the cab, jutting up like the peak on a Nazi cap. There was no hood, and the engine stuck out in greasy mechanical contrast to the rest. For the rest of it was painted in lime green and garish geometric art.

“Pakistani hippies?” Wade asked.

“Hippies?” Nasima replied, confused. “Oh, no. Just as with the bright colors of clothes, people are proud of their vehicles.” She waved an arm and the driver slowed.

It took her less than a minute, while Wade held his lungee over his face and squinted. She turned and said, “He agrees to carry us for fifty rupees.”

Fifty rupees. Less than a dollar. Kyle would have paid a thousand times that to put distance between them and their former allies. “Done,” he said.

They were ushered into the back, which was covered with plywood and had a plywood door with a brass knob set into it. The wood had faded from green to a contrasting black and straw as the wood aged. Inside was obviously someone’s store. There was a narrow walkway, perhaps eighteen inches wide, and the rest was bundles and bureaus of assorted stuff—textiles, spice jars, hardware, and more they couldn’t see. Wade scurried in first with the rifle case and his ruck, then Kyle with the rest of their gear. Nasima came in last, thanking the driver and paying him. The door was closed, leaving them in virtual darkness, the weak dawn entering through a window eight inches square.

Kyle squatted with his arms around his knees. “Well, it’s cramped, but private,” he said as the gears clashed and jolted them forward.

“He will get us to the next town,” Nasima said. “From there, we can find some way to Hicheri.”

“I don’t suppose we can rent a car?” Kyle asked. He’d feel much safer with the minimal privacy of doors and a roof over their foreign features.

“No,” she said. “But it may be possible to buy one. How much money do you have?”

Kyle tried to look at Wade over his shoulder, realized it was impossible, and said, “Almost forty-eight thousand dollars in Afghanis, rupees, and dollars.”

“Forty—!” she started. Then, “I think I should have asked for more money as your translator.”

“Nasima, you can have whatever’s left when we leave. It’s an asset we’re supposed to use,” Kyle said, trying not to sound desperate. He didn’t want her feeling put upon.

“That’s generous of you,” she said, “but not necessary. I will work for my pay. It was an honest price.” Her smile was faintly visible in the growing half-light. “But we should be able to buy a car with that easily. Perhaps with far less.” She chuckled.

It was a disconcerting ride, jolted and bounced in the dark, hanging on around bends as the old truck swayed. The springs were shot, and the shocks of course, and the differential howled. It reminded Kyle of the duct tape and baling wire monster of a pickup he’d had in high school, except that this was a twenty-foot Mercedes that was likely older than he was.

The light improved, their hunger increased, and the bouncing and squatting didn’t help bladder pressure. It was late morning before they arrived back in Bemana’abad. It wasn’t too soon to suit them. The weather was mild, but under the dark, musty canvas of the truck, it had been stifling and sweaty.

They nodded to the driver and started walking, following Nasima’s lead. Eyes turned and followed them.

The problems were obvious. Either Kyle or Wade alone could have managed to have stayed discreet. But they were both very tall, well-built, and had obvious American weapons. To avoid that, they’d wrapped them, but it was still clear they had large hardware. The natives noticed them.

It wasn’t the curious glances that were bothersome. Those were to be expected. But some of the looks were puzzled, mean, or offended as people deduced who they were. Clearly, the word had got out about their shoot. Not one person in twenty belonged to the tribe in question, but they’d talk. Eventually, the word would get back.

“Nasima,” Kyle said softly, “we need to become better hidden, or get out of here fast.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “So let us find a vehicle. There’s a merchant over that way. I assume the first one will do?”

“As long as the car works, yes,” Kyle said. “Wade, how good a mechanic are you? I’m used to big American cars, not the little foreign ones.”

“I know enough to spot a lemon,” he said.

“Good.”

Nasima asked, “Lemon?” and looked quizzical.

“Slang for a sour, bitter, lousy car,” Kyle said.

“Ah.”

It wasn’t much of a lot, being simply a cleared and graded corner with weeds poking lazily through the dust and a shed as an office. It contained several vehicles ranging from three years old to ancient. Rust wasn’t bad in the dry climate, but all were abraded and bleached to some extent.

Nasima swept up and engaged the dealer in rapid-fire Pashto. They smiled and gestured and occasionally he’d nod his balding head. Kyle and Wade smiled as they exchanged glances, and sidled up on an old Toyota. It looked like a Camry.

The cars were actually cheaper than the trucks, and it took some thinking to figure out why. The farmers needed trucks. Only urbanites would have cars, but they’d prefer a newer one. Anyone buying basic transport would get a truck or van first. But this would be fine for their needs, and when Wade popped the hood, it was obviously worn but functional. There was a dent on the right-rear corner, which was hardly surprising the way people drove here. “Chaotic” was the politest word for it.

The dealer would know who they were anyway, so they spoke in English. Wade started the engine with the provided key, revved it, and listened. “Smooth enough,” he said. “Let’s haggle over the body, the nonworking air conditioning, and the clutch.”

Nasima bargained for them. She was animated, pushy, and seemed quite confident. The man feigned disgust at her offers and jabbered back. It took only a few minutes before she turned back and said, “One thousand dollars, and I suggest another two hundred to keep him silent about us.”

“Done,” Kyle said. He peeled out rupees and passed them over. A few minutes took care of title in Nasima’s name, and they filled the trunk with gear and piled in. The wrapped weapons went with them.

“Who’s driving?” Kyle asked.

“I am,” Nasima said. “When we get out into the country, you might need to take over. But for now, I know the way.”

“Got it,” he agreed.

“First, I need some more clothes.”

“Okay.”

She darted into a shop while they lurked fretting inside the car. She was barely five minutes, however.

“I have jeans and boots now,” she said.

“Oh, good.”

It was frightening driving through town. They were almost used to the insanity of the drivers by now, but the additional risk of being recognized caused them to keep glancing about. “Where are we going?” Kyle asked.

“Hicheri,” she reminded him.


Once on the road, Kyle punched for General Robash on his phone. This was important enough that he wanted to talk directly.

“Robash here,” was the answer on the first ring.

“Kyle here,” he said. “General, I hate like hell to say this, but we’ve failed. We’re heading out.” The admission was nauseating, painful. He hoped it wouldn’t be taken too hard back home.

“What happened, son? Talk to me,” Robash said.

“Sir, our so-called allies were playing us as patsies. We assassinated some other local gang leader for them. They’re very happy. The other tribe is not. The word is out, and we’re being watched.”

“Shit,” Robash said.

“Yes, sir. We’ve secured transport and a translator, and are heading for the border. Do you have any specific orders for us?”

“Stand by,” was the reply. Kyle waited, looking nervously out the windows as Nasima took them swiftly out of town. He listened to nothing as Robash did something, with the expensive line open.

Shortly, he was back on. “Status report, please.”

“Sir,” Kyle said, “we are uninjured, all equipment except the laptop accounted for—it’s broken—in control of the situation, and with transport and a translator. We have broken contact with our former allies, whom I judge to be uninterested or potentially hostile at this point. We have over forty thousand in cash left, and are heading for a safe zone before retreating across the border. Several local tribes are seeking us, and I judge the risk to be moderate at this time.” “Right,” Robash said. “We need you to stay if you can. Is there any reason not to?”

Kyle thought furiously. “Other than the local search, I guess we’re still clean. But we’re known now, and our target is likely to get word.”

“There is that,” Robash said. “But we’ve had a car bombing, over a hundred casualties in a club in Germany and several other threats. As we tighten the noose on these assholes, they’re getting desperate. We can’t get another team in any time soon, and they’ll be watching. It’s good that you’re making noises of retreating; we want them to think that. But if you can regroup and push on, you’re still the best shot we’ve got at doing this.”

“If you tell me to do it, sir, we’ll do it,” he said. He turned his head and Wade nodded. “There’s risk, but I understand your point.” A nightclub. Lovely. Likely one he’d been in less than two years ago, too, if it was in Germany.

“I’m asking, not ordering,” Robash said. “You’re the man on the spot. Tell me you need out, we’ll do it. Tell me you can push on, and you’ll make a lot of people very happy.”

“We’ll do it,” Kyle agreed, though he wasn’t one of those who’d be happy. And “request” aside, it was an order. He’d have to justify bailing. He could, but it stuck in his craw, and Robash had to know that. It was polite railroading, but still . . . “There’s risk, but we’ll do it. But I’m not sure how to find him now. Suggestions?”

“Not yet,” Robash said. “I’ll get you intel as fast as I can. You get hidden and rest for a day or two. And thank you both. You’re handling a bitch of a situation in first-class fashion.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kyle said. The compliment was honest. Other commanders might have complained, or been overly understanding. Robash was competently aware and let his people do their jobs.

“Roger that. We’ll get you intel, you bag this dirtball, snipers.”

“Will do, sir. Out.”

“Out.”

Turning to Wade he grinned and said, “We’re fucked.” He wasn’t worried about offending Nasima anymore. The lady was tough.

“That bad?” Wade asked.

“I guess not,” Kyle said. “Looking at it logically, we had allies we couldn’t trust. We now have one ally we can, and familiarity with the area. But we have no intel on this guy at all.”

Nasima asked, “Who is the man you’re looking for?”

Swapping quick glances, Wade nodded and Kyle said, “Rafiq bin Qasim, one of al Qaeda’s best people.” There wasn’t any reason not to tell her now.

She looked surprised for only a moment, then recovered. “He shouldn’t be hard to find,” she said. “He’s bound to have local allies, and word always gets out among the tribes.”

“Okay,” Kyle said. “Then who do we ask? Lost and found?”

“First we get to Hicheri,” she said. “Then we look.”

“Okay,” he said. “You keep driving, I’ll think.”

“Don’t hurt your head,” she said, smiling. He. chuckled.

For several minutes, he said nothing, eyes closed, head back, letting his brain digest all the data. And also to ignore Nasima’s driving, which was fast enough over the rough road that he wished for a helmet against bumps.

The biggest problem was the lack of intel. The biggest risk was that of discovery. The former required local sources, which Nasima might help them find. Nothing more to be done about that. The latter required better disguise.

Sitting up, he said, “One of the problems is that lovely piece of hardware.” He indicated the trunk with a finger.

“The Barrett?” Wade asked.

“Yep. It’s big, clunky, and obvious. Can’t hide it. I’ll bet everyone within a hundred miles knows about it and is scanning with binocs. And really, we’re not going to need a thousand-meter-plus kill. Eight hundred, even as little as three hundred will do it. We need a weapon better suited to the environment.”

“You aren’t thinking what I think you are, Kyle?” Wade asked. He looked a bit wide-eyed and disturbed.

“Oh, I’m not going to sell it,” Kyle grinned at him. “I do plan to stash it somewhere. We’ve got enough cash to buy whatever we need.”

“You’re going to buy an M24 Sniper Weapon System in the ass-end of Pakistan?” Wade asked, incredulous.

Chuckling, Kyle said, “I probably could. But that would be obvious, too. I’m sure we can find a Mauser though. Or even a Dragunov.”

Nasima was still driving, quietly. She’d heard everything, but hadn’t offered any comment. “Rifles are available on the street where the metalsmiths are. I can show you,” she said. They started bouncing over a rough spot in the road, and she jolted with the motion of the wheels and steering.

“Great,” Kyle said. “I’ll tell you what I need and you can buy it.”

“I wouldn’t know what to get, or how to bargain,” she said. “I know weapons when I see them, everyone does. But not enough to talk about them.”

“But, Nasima,” he said, “We’re obvious. You’re a local.”

“I suppose,” she replied. She was clearly unhappy with the idea.

Kyle spoke to reassure her. “Fair enough,” he said. “We’ll try another approach.”

“Like what?” Wade asked.

“I’m not sure,” Kyle admitted. “But let’s stash this sucker first. I’ll think about it meantime. What I’ll do is pull the bolt. Nothing they can do with it then. We’ll keep that, and find somewhere to hide the rest of it.”

“Makes sense,” Wade nodded, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t happy parting with the massive weapon. A lone M4 and pistols against artillery, machine guns, and Kalashnikovs was not an appealing state of affairs.

“I know of a cave,” Nasima said. “It’s remote and very narrow.”

“Sounds good,” Kyle said. “Nearby?”

“Not far from Hicheri. We played there when I was small. Since I came back from Afghanistan, I haven’t seen anyone go near the area.”

“Sounds good,” Kyle said. At the rate she was driving, it was less than an hour before they reached it. With all the convoluted routes, they’d come within twenty miles of where their failed shot had been, and were now heading back roughly toward Quetta.

No, Kyle decided, the shot hadn’t failed. The shot had been good. The intel had failed, and that wasn’t his fault.

They marked the spot on the map with a single dot, wrote coordinates in Kyle’s notebook. While they were at it, Nasima showed them Nakhoney, just outside of Kandahar.


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