Authors: Christopher Reich
“I don’t know,” said Connor. “He tried to contact me several hours ago, but the connection was broken.”
Sharp took a step back, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, Frank, you’re not just off the reservation, you’ve left the entire planet. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Then don’t.” Connor turned away from Sharp, despising him. “Just shut up and wait with the rest of us.”
Five minutes passed, and Connor spoke to the commander again. “Can you get in there yet?”
“Not a chance. The whole damned hangar collapsed. There’s enough ammo to arm a Marine division in there, and all of it’s cooking off. It’s raining shrapnel out here. No one’s going near the place until it stops.”
“And Sultan Haq?”
“Sir, no one got out of there but my men. If Haq was in there when it went up, he’s in there now.”
Connor looked at Sharp. “The bomb is in there,” he said. “We had a visual confirmation.”
“You saw it with your own eyes, did you?”
“We saw the crate it was packed in.”
“The crate?” Sharp’s skepticism was apparent.
“Yeah. What do you think—they carry it around on their belt like a BlackBerry?”
“For your sake, I hope so, Frank. But this looks like it’s going to take a while to clear. In the meantime, you’re removed from your post. President’s orders. These men are federal marshals. They’re here to escort you from the premises and take you to your home, where you are to consider yourself under house arrest until further notice.”
With disbelief, Connor looked over Sharp’s shoulder at the two men behind him. “House arrest? On what charges?”
“Gross dereliction of duty, for one,” said Sharp. “Also, a man named James Malloy was found murdered in his home last night. I understand you paid him a visit the other night. I’m sure we’re going to find plenty more violations as soon as you tell us exactly what you’ve been up to.”
Connor pointed at the screen. “There is a WMD in that building.”
“If it’s there, we’ll find it.”
“I have an operator on-site. Her name is Danni Pine. I want to talk to her.”
“One of ours?”
“Mossad.”
“Another irregular? Good to know. I’ll see that we get in touch with her immediately.”
A marshal approached, and Connor backed away. “I need to know if Ransom is all right. We’ve got to get him out.”
“I will be sure to ask her,” said Sharp. “It’s over, Frank. You’re done. Goodbye.”
A marshal took Connor’s arm. “This way, sir.”
Connor held his head high as he was led out of the building.
“I’m sorry,” said Peter Erskine. “You left me no choice.”
Jonathan and Danni commando-crawled
one hundred meters to the safety of the repair shed where the troops had staged before the raid. The air continued to thunder with exploding mortars, artillery shells, grenades, and bullets, the tarmac shuddering with each blast. A mountain of smoke rose into the sky. But all Jonathan saw was the image of the jeeps driving at full speed away from the hangar. Winded, he stood and rushed to find the nearest soldier.
“I need to speak to your commanding officer,” he said. “It’s an emergency. I may have seen Haq driving away from the hangar.”
A Pakistani soldier crouched on a knee before him, one hand on his helmet. “That would be Major Nichols,” he said, looking around and not seeing him. The soldier hailed Nichols over his radio and passed along Jonathan’s message. “He’s coming around the hangar—he’ll be here as quickly as possible.”
Two minutes passed, and a soldier approached from the left, running, his head down.
“I’m Nichols,” the man said. He was Delta Force all the way. The beard, the Oakley sunglasses, the neck thicker than an oak. “Who are you?”
“Ransom. I work for the government. I was with Balfour. Listen to me, the man you’re looking for is—”
“Hold it!” Nichols raised a hand for Jonathan to shut up. “You’re Jonathan Ransom? And you, lady, you’re Pine?”
Danni nodded.
“You’re both to come with me. I’ve been ordered to take you into custody.”
“Custody?” said Danni warily. “What for?”
Major Nichols consulted a scrap of paper in his hand. “I’m to tell you that Frank Connor has been removed from his position as director of Division. Pending a debriefing and investigation, you’re to consider yourselves under military confinement.”
“Removed? Why?” asked Jonathan.
“Sir, I’m telling you everything I know. Now let’s get moving.”
“Hold it,” said Jonathan earnestly, one smart, well-intentioned man speaking to another. “All this stuff can wait. A second before the hangar went up, I saw two jeeps driving out the far side, heading toward the cargo terminals. One of the jeeps looked like the vehicle Haq was loading the warhead into.”
At the mention of the word “warhead,” Nichols stiffened. “Did you see Haq with your own eyes?”
“The jeeps were too far away,” said Jonathan. “Why? Have you found him inside?”
Nichols studied Jonathan’s bruised face, the cut beneath his eye, the notch in his ear. “You the maniac that I saw running around in there trying to get at Haq?”
“Yeah.”
Nichols stuffed the paper back into his breast pocket. “No,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “We didn’t locate Haq or the warhead. There wasn’t time before everything started cooking off.”
“He got out the back,” said Jonathan. The images of the jeep were clearer now. He saw uniforms in the front seat and a hunched silhouette in the rear. A man covered by a blanket. He closed his eyes, willing himself to see more, to clear his mind and let his memory do the work, as Danni had taught him. The pictures grew more detailed, and with a jolt he opened his eyes. “It was Haq. He was in the jeep. I spent time with him in Afghanistan. I know the guy. He has the warhead. I saw him loading it into the jeep inside the hangar.”
Nichols leaned in closer. “You saw him loading the warhead into the jeep? Alone?”
“Balfour had a couple of physicists reduce it in size. I heard them say it was twelve kilotons. The whole thing looked like an oversized stainless-steel thermos.”
“Either way, we have the building surrounded. There is no chance Haq escaped.”
“Do you have his body?” Jonathan asked again.
“I already told you that we don’t,” said Nichols, growing irritated. “No one’s going near that hangar for a day to recover it. But take my word for it, there’s no way out except through the main doors.”
“Who told you that? The same Pakistani officers who are driving Haq in that jeep? Don’t you know what they say about these guys? ‘Not for sale, but always for rent.’”
The major bristled at Jonathan’s tone but was savvy enough to take his words to heart. “Colonel Pasha, come in,” he said into his two-way radio on his shoulder harness. “Your boys have the rear of the hangar covered, right?”
“Of course,” answered the Pakistani officer.
“And no one drove out of there?”
“Negative.”
Nichols looked at Jonathan and Danni. “You’re a hundred percent certain on that? We have a report of a couple of jeeps leaving the rear of the hangar prior to the explosion, possibly with Haq and the WMD.”
“Jeeps? No, nothing at all like that.”
“He’s lying,” said Jonathan.
“Shut it!” said Nichols. Then to Pasha: “Anything at all? I thought I saw a jeep trailing out the back.”
“Those were friendlies,” said Pasha.
“The guy’s lying,” said Jonathan, getting into the major’s space. “I saw them leaving. It was Haq. He had a blanket over him. You can’t believe him!”
“Listen here, cowboy,” said Nichols, clutching a fistful of Jonathan’s shirt. “I’ve trained up close and personal with that man for a year. He’s had my back more times than I can count. He tells me no one got out, then no one got out. Are we clear?”
“No, we’re not clear,” retorted Jonathan, not backing off an inch. “I’m telling you I saw Haq in a jeep. Are you willing to risk that he got away with the WMD?”
Nichols glared at Jonathan and at Danni, all the while shifting his ammo belt. “Fuck,” he said. “You’d better be goddamned sure.”
“I am.”
Nichols released his grip on Jonathan’s shirt. “Come with me.” The major stalked off to an open Humvee and climbed behind the wheel. “You said it was heading east?”
“Toward the freight terminals. A black jeep. Two Pakistani military officers in front.”
Jonathan and Danni climbed into the back and Nichols floored it, taking a wide arc around the burning hangar. As they drove, Nichols radioed for his subordinates to join in the search. “Mount up and follow me to the east side of the airport. Freight area. I got a report that one of the bad guys made it out the rear with the package. Call General Zoy and have him lock down the airport.”
“He’ll never do that,” came the response.
“Tell him it’s a direct order from United States Central Command.”
“Hey, chief, aren’t you forgetting something? This is their country.”
“The hell it is. Tell him he’s got a rogue nuke on the loose, and then see what he says.”
Nichols checked his watch, then turned and shot Jonathan the most threatening look he’d ever received. “That sonofabitch Haq has been gone ten minutes. Why didn’t you come to me earlier?”
“You’re late,” said the pilot
as he shoved the forward door closed. “Find a place to sit and buckle up. We’re leaving.”
Sultan Haq started down the cavernous fuselage, squinting in the dim light as he made his way past jeeps and armored personnel carriers and various crates of military equipment. The jeeps belonged to the United States Army, as did the personnel carriers and every last piece of equipment loaded and secured aboard the Starlifter.
It was the greatest exodus of military matériel in history.
For seven years the United States military had sent its sons and daughters to the country of Iraq to free Iraq’s people of a tyrannical dictator and sow the seeds of democracy. Along with the soldiers, a constant stream of matériel poured into the country. Day in, day out, planes landed at airbases across the country. C-141 Starlifters carrying tanks, artillery pieces, and up-armored Humvees. Boeing C-19s filled with heavy trucks, mobile kitchens, and Kevlar vests. Great cargo ships docked at ports in the Arabian Sea delivering jeeps, ammunition, and pallet upon pallet of MREs.
Now the war was winding down. The American military was moving on. And it was taking its war-making apparatus with it. A total of 3.3 million pieces of military equipment was to be repatriated or sent onward to Afghanistan, where American troops were engaged in a fierce conflict. M1 Abrams tanks, Bradley Fighting Vehicles, Stryker armored personnel carriers, howitzer cannons—the list went on ad infinitum. The task was too great to accomplish solely with its own
equipment, so the masters of logistics looked outside the military for ships and planes available to assist them. One of the firms contracted to help was East Pakistan Airways, owned and operated by Ashok Balfour Armitraj.
Collapsing into a makeshift seat halfway down the interior, Haq leaned his head against the bulkhead and drew a deep breath. He was sweating profusely, the fear and adrenaline and terror of survival and escape still gripping him, leaving his hands trembling. He yanked at the sleeve of his jacket to get at his watch, hating the Western clothing. It was almost seven o’clock. Reflexively, he touched the crate placed on the webbed seating next to him for reassurance. Takeoff was scheduled for 1900 local time. Military transports did not wait for unlisted passengers and cargo.
One after another, the Starlifter’s Pratt and Whitney turbine engines powered up. The plane gave a mighty shiver, then began to move. It taxied for several minutes, and Haq felt his anxiety lessen. Only then did he acknowledge the pain in his leg. He pulled up his pants leg and gazed at the chunk of shrapnel embedded in his calf. He saw that his shoe was filled with blood. He thought of his beloved brother Massoud lying dead on the hangar floor, his face shot away. And, less respectfully, of Ashok Balfour Armitraj, killed by his own ammunition.
The plane came to a halt. Time passed. Still they did not move. A full five minutes elapsed. Haq looked around for a window, but the plane was not configured for passengers. Worried, he rose and hurried to the cockpit. “What’s going on?”
The pilot shot him a nervous glance. “All departures have been halted. The army is demanding to search every plane.”
“Why?”
“You tell me.” The pilot climbed out of his seat. “Get in the back and hide in one of the trucks.”
Haq selected a truck near the rear of the aircraft and climbed
inside. The wait was excruciating. Minutes stretched on, until an hour had passed. Finally he felt the plane shudder slightly and heard voices echo in the cabin. Crouching behind the backseat, he waited for the door to open, a flashlight to shine on his face. But the voices were gone almost immediately. He rose, looked out the windshield, and saw the pilot walking toward him alone.
Haq jumped down from the truck. “And?”
“We’re an American military aircraft. They took one look at my cargo and left.”
Haq breathed easier. “Will we be leaving soon?”
“As soon as the airport is reopened, we are number seven in line for takeoff.”
“How long to our first stop?”
“Seven hours.”
Haq winced, looking at his wounded leg. “Get me a first-aid kit and some pliers.”
“I’ll be back after takeoff,” said the pilot before heading back to the cockpit.
A few minutes later the plane began to move. It made a series of turns, paused, and the massive engines revved loudly. The plane gathered speed. The jeeps and personnel carriers and crates began to shake violently, dust rising from them as the plane thundered down the runway. And then the nose lifted and the wheels rose off the ground and the shaking ceased.
Closing his eyes, Sultan Haq prayed. He prayed for his father’s wisdom and his brother’s cunning. He prayed for his son’s respect and his family’s courage. And when he was finished, he swore to make his clan proud.
A melody came into his mind. It was a bouncy, carefree melody, too smug by half, full of ridiculous promise, sung by men who wore their country’s uniform too proudly, who instinctively mocked cultures different from their own. Men with small, ignoble noses who considered foreigners to be inferior by definition and were happy to kill them on general principle. Men who believed it was their birthright to rule the world. Americans.