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CHAPTER 14



Bin Qasim was very happy, the nightclub blast had been perfect. Better yet, the soldier of God had not died in the explosion, but had been captured by the German authorities. Since decadent Westerners would never execute an enemy, except for the Americans, and even they did it so rarely and after such a long time that it was meaningless, he could be ransomed in exchange for reporters or diplomats. Perhaps Allah would smile and some of them would be women, who could learn of God’s hierarchy from bin Qasim first.

Or, the bomber could be shot in custody, by another soldier, of course, and turned into a martyr, creating greater fear. Already, southern France’s Muslim population had managed to close many of the clubs, and impose decent standards of dress upon women. If Germany could be brought along next, the new wave of Islam could sweep the world.

And if America could not be persuaded, why, then she could be raped like the whore she was.

The phone rang then, line number three. He picked up the receiver quickly but carefully.

“Yes?” he said.

“We are on our way,” a voice whispered. “There has been a fight. The Diversion Unit was hurt badly, but inflicted three casualties. Here’s our coordinates,” the informer said. There was a pause as he switched to text messaging, followed by a string of numbers on the display.

“Thank you. Call when they are within five kilometers.”

“Go with Allah,” was the last comment before the line went dead.

Bin Qasim marked the map. That was a convenient location, but he’d wait a while. When they were closer, he’d spring the trap. When they were too close to escape.

Grinning, he shut down the computer and turned to matters of the soul.

After which, those American snipers would be turned into a sign from God.


It was Wade who suddenly said, “What the hell?”

They were moving along a shelf that protruded from the hillside. Wade had casually leaned against the wall to adjust his ruck, and seen something . . .

“Does that man have a radio?” he asked aloud.

There was instant reaction to the tone of his voice, and Kyle turned. Sure enough, there was a short, shaggy man with what looked like a radio or cell phone just disappearing into his pocket. The expression on his face was of utter surprise, though a quick storm of other emotions rolled across. He clearly was embarrassed.

Nasima said something that included “Telepone,” the word borrowed from English, and in seconds the man was surrounded and pinned to the wall. One of Gol’s close henchmen held up the device. It was, in fact, an Iridium phone, similar to that the snipers carried.

There was shouting, curses, and accusations. Gol and Kyle both had to yell for silence. That left the man, Siddiq, standing surrounded by a semicircle of bewildered, angry people. He was relieved of his weapons in short order, but not without a struggle. He was pushed down, acquiring a bruise on the cheek along the way. Again Gol had to shout for order. This time, silence and calm prevailed.

“I can’t think of a valid reason for this clown to have a cell phone. Can you?” Kyle asked, voice quivering with rage.

“No,” Wade said. “Nasima?”

She was already speaking to Gol, and it was dear that he was not happy. Not only was this a threat to him, but it was a threat to his guests. The two together amounted to a major sin against propriety, the tribe, and what nationalism there was.

“How much did he talk? Do we need to abort?” Kyle asked. He hated like hell the idea that they might have to bug out, but if someone was waiting for them, it would be suicide to continue.

“I am asking,” Nasima assured him, her tone snappish. Kyle breathed slowly and mentally backed off. He kept trying to run every detail himself, and he simply wasn’t qualified for some of this. Let the other guy handle his own MOS, he thought. Or woman in this case. There was too much to do, and too much he didn’t know, for him to throw his weight around.

Siddiq was defensive and outraged at the accusations. But when Gol asked him point blank, “Who did you call? Three numbers here. Who?” he didn’t have a good answer. He shut up entirely.

While in an American court the Fifth Amendment would protect him against self-incrimination, this was neither court nor America. It was a battlefield, and they had to know what was going on, and act on that information quickly.

Gol punched Siddiq, a heavy, straight smash to his face that knocked him back against the rock. He staggered, eyes unfocused and head lolling.

When he recovered, with a shake of the head that threw drops of blood from his nose, his attitude had changed. He started ranting something about Allah. Kyle didn’t need a translation to know he was justifying himself, but when Siddiq faced him, he spoke in English anyway.

“It is a holy honor to die for Allah,” he said. His eyes had that look of the true believer. The nutcase who will endorse hatred, killing, socialism, or other religious idiocies, no matter how illogical or how often proved wrong, just because he believes.

Kyle had had enough. “An honor indeed,” he said. He wasn’t opposed to torture for information in this case, but it would take time they didn’t have. He snagged a grenade from his harness, yanked the pin out with his left thumb. He gave the little troll a heartfelt knee to the balls, driving his leg to his own waist, a good foot above the skinny runt’s crotch, then drove his heel into the man’s chest. Siddiq grunted, “Guhhhhh!” with a terrified look on his face as Kyle stuffed the grenade down his coarse shirt. Kyle shoved, and he bounced over the precipice and down. Precisely at the three-second mark, a horrendous BOOM! indicated that his body was splattered over the cliff face. “Bon fucking voyage. Say hi to Allah for me,” Kyle said.

There was a slim chance someone might hear the boom, identify it, and come after them, but there were so many little engagements, uses of grenades for mining, celebrations, stray land mines, and fire for God only knew what else that he wasn’t worried. And didn’t care. The man was a traitor to his own, and he was dead. And with bin Qasim knowing their location anyway, it couldn’t really hurt.

And, he reflected, killing the little bastard made him feel quite a bit better.

That done, fury and fear fighting inside, he drew out his own phone and called in.

On the second ring, it was answered.

“Gilpin.” Gilpin was Robash’s civilian assistant. His voice was deep, and he likely bellowed in person.

“Mr. Gilpin, Sergeant Monroe. I have a problem,” he said.

“What do you need?”

“We’ve got a local infiltrator with an Iridium phone, who likely called our target. Can we check the numbers called and track the physical location of the receiving party?”

“Stand by, Sergeant,” Gilpin replied. “Can you give me the ID from the phone that called, hold on air, and I’ll get a rep to talk to me?”

“Sure,” Kyle agreed. He read off the serial number, and the phone’s ID from memory. “Holding,” he said.

Kyle spent the pause twitching and fidgeting. It was only two minutes, then Gilpin was back. “Sergeant Monroe, the number belongs to a geologic survey company based out of Kazakhstan. The call was received within two hundred miles of your location. That’s as accurate as they can say unless the user attaches a GPS option.”

“I don’t think the user is going to do that,” he observed wryly.

“Neither do I. Sorry I can’t be of more help on that.”

“Oh, that helps,” Kyle said. “It was definitely in theater, therefore it’s a threat. One of our allies had a cell phone and was calling out.”

“Understood. What do you plan to do?”

“I’m not aborting yet, if that’s what you’re asking. We’ll take a different route in,” he said. He probably should abort, but it had become a point of honor. He and Wade were going to get this rat bastard.

“Understood. We’ll be here if you need us.”

“Thanks. Kyle out.” He disconnected. “Well,” he said to Wade and Nasima, “that’s that. They know we’re coming. What do we do?”

“Hide in a hurry, and either evac or at least clear the area,” Wade said.

Nasima spoke to Gol, who said, “If we get higher, we will have better position and visibility.”

That was true, Kyle thought, and there wasn’t much in the way of air support here. “Sounds good,” he said. “Quietly and quickly.”

The terrain wasn’t that hard to climb; it had plenty of texture. Still, they were at altitude, and the air was thin. Adding huge rucks to the equation made it an athletic event. Gol’s people helped carry some of the gear, but even so, it was crushing. The safest technique was to slither over the rocks, using hands and feet. Dust and sweat turned to mud on their skin, and they were all soon abraded and scraped.

They rested every hour, sipping water slowly and chewing at boring rations. As soon as their parched throats were comfortable, they were climbing again. The locals, Kyle thought, moved like mountain goats. Even Nasima was ahead of him, bouncing easily. He actually had caught a glimpse of ankle, and her muscle tone was rather attractive. Sighing, he pushed on.

They were still safe at sunset, and it seemed there’d be no more interruptions. Wade had suggested, and Kyle had agreed, that they should bite the bullet and travel around the village to another site. There was no need to risk setting up where their traitor had known they would be. Gol nodded at the suggestion, said, “Very wise,” and led them widely around.

They pushed on in the dark until progress was impossible. The Americans had night vision, and Gol had an old Russian set that was twenty years old. But the rest had eyes only, and even with a half-moon, it was too dark for safe footing. They unrolled blankets and snuggled against the hillside, under a slight overhang that cut the wind. It did nothing about noise, and whistling whines announced gusts all night. Any audible approach would also be apparent, of course. Sometimes, the best shelter was in the open.

Under blankets, wool chapan coats and shirts, with their lungees wrapped down around their faces, it wasn’t frigid, but chill. It couldn’t be above forty-five degrees outside, and the windbreak and clothes stopped them from getting hypothermia but not much else. But they’d trained for worse, and the locals seemed used to it. Or maybe it was just the lack of central heating most of them had.

Gol posted sentries, using his night vision and one of the American sets. Kyle felt as if he were loaning out his car to a teenager. But the young man took only a few minutes of fiddling to decipher the controls, and slipped off like a ghost. He seemed to know what he was about, so Kyle tried to concentrate on sleeping.

Oddly enough, he did. Exhaustion put him under, but there was something that lowered his suspicions. With Nasima along, and the effort Gol had made toward communicating, planning and tactics, it felt right. No yokels, these; they were competent guerillas.

They awoke at dawn, breath misting in the frigid air. There was some frost, and Kyle ached all over. He had blisters on his cold, stinging toes, chafing around his boot tops and on his shoulders, and a crick in his neck. His mouth tasted horrible.

There was no tea, but he brushed his teeth as they started walking again at once, out from the ledge they’d sheltered under and up the slope. A swig of water to rinse with made him feel five percent closer to human, and he shifted his gear around as he marched, trying to find the most comfortable arrangement. He forced himself not to favor his right foot, that being the worst-blistered one, because he could injure himself worse with bad posture.

“Man, you look as ugly as I feel,” Wade said to him, catching up alongside as they crawled over a steep slab.

“Same to you, pal,” he snapped back. “Enjoying that great fresh air and the huge paycheck that comes with it?”

“Oh, absolutely. I feel like singing,” Wade said.

“You do and I’ll shoot you first,” he replied. “I didn’t think you could get a hangover without drinking.”

“Altitude,” Wade said.

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean I like it, just because I understand it.”

The verbal sparring stopped as one of Gol’s men slipped back and extended his arm. He held the night vision goggles, cased and secure.

“Sta na shukria,” Kyle said as he took them. It was more natural to him now than “thank you.”

The terrain wasn’t all uphill. They spent as much time angling obliquely across slopes down. That was sometimes worse, with slippery dirt over loose, scaly rock underneath.

Kyle estimated their progress at perhaps one mile per hour, with the rough ground and slope. Some areas were smooth and green, lush with growth from rain caught by the hillsides. Other areas were chaotic jumbles of bedrock. It certainly never got boring, he thought, as they clambered over a sharp, jutting point and lowered themselves.

Nasima was panting, but gamely hanging on. She’d started with youthful energy and flexibility, but in the long term, the veterans could push beyond the fatigue barrier. Even sheened in sweat with stringy hair escaping her hijab, she was striking. Kyle wondered again why she stayed here. With her drive, she could be very successful in the West.

Still, home was home. He’d do well here, with an American pension. He couldn’t see himself doing so.

“Are you okay?” he asked her at a break.

“I am,” she said. “Though my shoes are too stiff. But I will manage.” She drank water from her canteen, a typical camping-style one slung over her shoulder, and then greeted Gol as he approached. She translated effortlessly as they chatted.

“We are in the area,” Gol said. “I expect they are in the village over that next ridge,” he pointed. “It’s about seven kilometers, and we’ll have height. What do you want to do?”

Wade spoke first. “We need to reconnoiter the area, and find a good route down and on. We’ll have to get within about five hundred meters.”

“Next time, I suggest the mortar,” Gol said with mirth.

“Wouldn’t we like to,” Kyle said. “Or just spot for an Air Force jet. But we have to be discreet, and we have to avoid casualties. The press will cause trouble.”

“Perhaps you should use the reporters for target practice,” he said.

“We had that exact conversation,” Wade said, “only with politicians.”

They all laughed.

Gol continued, “We are on the far side from the road. We’ll need to sneak around and across. If you can call, our drivers can be waiting to pick us up.”

“Right. Where?” he asked. It wouldn’t do to have vehicles close enough to take fire from direct-fire weapons and give away their position. They looked at the map and selected a location. The ridge they’d be on tapered off to the west, and a road hooked around from the south. It was about two kilometers away from the target, and would be concealed until pursuing elements cleared the ridge by going either over or around.

“Looks good. But if I were this guy, and knew we were coming, I’d have patrols all over these ridges,” Wade said.

“Assume so,” Kyle nodded. “So we can’t have the vehicles show up until after the shot. We can do that with the phones easily enough.”

“And meantime?”

“Meantime,” Kyle said, “we need very good hilljacks to find where those patrols go.”

Gol grinned, “I have three men who are perfect. They will tell you who made their shoes.” “I’ll settle for the shoe size,” Kyle said. “I hope they won’t be disappointed.”

Gol whistled up three of his men. All looked to be on the older side, though with their living conditions, that could be late twenties. They nodded, and slipped off in three directions; along the ridge, down behind it to the road to the south, and back to the east where they’d come from.

Gol said, “We’ll want the trucks on the road, and traveling, not parked. No one will attach significance to them.”

“Of course,” he continued after a pause, “that little bastard Siddiq may have given them the license numbers.”

“Risk we take,” Kyle said. “But if they aren’t close by, it shouldn’t hurt us.”

“True. Let’s rest while the scouts search.”

So they did, and Kyle actually got a precious hour of sleep. Wade woke him and they switched off. Nasima could translate, she couldn’t make tactical decisions. One of them had to be awake for that.

After they were both awake, they fidgeted. Nothing would speed up the process, and Gol’s patrols had binoculars but not radios. They’d report back in person when they had something substantial, and not before.


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Framed