Veiled Freedom (11 page)

“Mac.” A huge former Army Ranger with tangled blond hair and beard, Mac wasn't short for any given name but a Mack truck.

“Rick.” Another American, Ricardo Calderon had been a Navy SEAL.

“McDuff.” Retired British Special Air Service, Jamie McDuff was the oldest of the group with a formidable résumé: counterterrorism in Ireland's civil war; parachuting into Kuwait in the first Gulf War; more recently, Kosovo and Iraq; and who knew what else since little of SAS service records ever saw the light of day.

“Ian.” Kiwi SAS Ian Grant's Polynesian features indicated his Scottish forebears had fraternized with New Zealand's original residents.

“Bones.” Though Wyoming native Timothy Bonefeole had no Special Ops experience, Steve had personally requested his addition to the team.

The last of the six, tall with a blond crew cut and cool, blue eyes, pounded Steve on the back. “Willie! Hey, great to see you, man.”

Steve hadn't heard his nickname with that particular flattened drawl since he'd last been in Afghanistan. “Phil, glad you could make the party.”

His ODA teammate hadn't stayed in Special Ops as long as Steve. Less than four months after Kabul's liberation, Philip Myers had been the sole survivor when his reconnaissance patrol hit a booby-trapped cave. Phil had lost a foot and partial vision in one eye. Discharged, he'd dropped out of Steve's life. But Phil had skills worth more than an intact body and shooting eye, and when Steve had come across Phil's résumé in the system, he'd bumped the name to the top of his wish list.

Only a limp hinted now at an artificial extremity, and from his powerful embrace, the Special Forces sergeant hadn't allowed the rest of his brawny frame to lose its conditioning. In fact, the whole team looked good, all fit, alert, and matching reasonably in age and muscle to their ID photo, not always a given.

“And I'm Steve Wilson. Detail leader for Khalid's PSD. I'll be calling a team meeting shortly. Cougar, how long before we go on the clock with Khalid?”

“ISAF's been running a security team since the sugar factory bombing, and I'm counting on manpower from them for tonight's shift. But Khalid has a 10 a.m. photo op with a congressional delegation at the embassy, and by then he'll expect to parade his personal security.” Cougar checked his watch. “Khalid won't be expecting us for dinner before seven. Which gives us at least six hours. How about lunch, siesta, then team meeting around five?”

“Make that the other way around. We've got serious planning to do. We'll worry about a siesta if there's time.”

Cougar's cell phone shrilled. The others waited as the CS manager interjected an occasional
balay
and
nay
, Dari for yes and no. Cougar looked unhappy as he snapped the phone shut. “Khalid's had some major blowout with ISAF—seems they weren't too happy with his chopper excursion—and they're staging a walkout at the end of the day. He wants us there stat.”

Team members were already reaching for laptops and M4s when Steve held up a hand. “No.”

Everyone turned to him.

Steve told Cougar, “Call back and tell Khalid we'll be there in two hours.”

“But he's asked—”

“Khalid's asking a lot of things. We might as well get off to a good start. If he could blow us off till tonight, he can wait a couple more hours.”

Cougar looked worried. “Khalid isn't going to like that. He's not the patient type. His deputy sounded pretty ticked off.”

“So what's he going to do? Send us away and turn down his pretty expat detail? Khalid may be our principal, but he's not the one picking up our tab. We start letting him jerk us around now, and we've already lost our leverage to control this mission.”

After pushing Redial, Cougar exchanged a few Dari phrases.

When he hung up, Steve went on. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change, and we'll have that team meeting. Cougar, if you'd ask your kitchen to rustle up something we can eat while we work. Meanwhile, the rest of you might want to get some gear together. When we leave, I expect us to be ready to step into this detail.”

His new teammates were nodding agreement, Steve noted with approval. Contrary to Cougar's solicitous concern, they were all big boys who hadn't come here for a vacation. Hungry, thirsty, or sleep-deprived, their training was to get on with the mission. If they couldn't handle that, they had no business on his team.

Upstairs, bedrooms held multiple cots and bunk beds, most of them in use by the footlockers and tacked-up photos. Two closed doors read, “Keep Quiet. Sleeping.”

“Night shifts. We've got convoys heading out at midnight, our best bet for catching the Tallies asleep.” Cougar pushed open a door to a small room holding a single bed. The perks of team leader. Steve's luggage was unloaded in a corner. “Bathroom's down the hall. Real flush toilets and hot water. We run our own generator.”

As promised, the water was hot and ample, and Steve was back downstairs within fifteen minutes. The others had already shifted to the command center, maps and blueprints spread out on the table.

Steve grabbed a sandwich from a nearby platter. “Okay, let's see who and what we have. Phil, thanks for pulling up stakes to join us on such short notice. Phil was my ODA's medic when we were deployed here,” he added.

Nods signaled comprehension. So this was why a guy short one limb had been invited to the party. Special Forces medics were the best in the world at combat zone trauma.

“Phil, I'd like you to go over the medical kit and make a wish list. Now, Bones—well, let's just say I did time with Bones on my last two contracts, and I'd take a pay cut myself to keep him on my team.” That got everyone's attention. PSCs didn't joke about pay scales. “Why don't you tell them why, Bones?”

“Well, back on the ranch they call me an engine whisperer.” The Wyoming native's drawl was quiet and placid. “They kinda talk to me about what's wrong with 'em. There's nothin' that drinks gas or diesel—car, truck, Zamboni—I cain't fix. In the Army I fixed choppers, so if you got one of those, I'll keep it flyin' too.”

“You might mention your other skill,” Steve prompted.

“I was demolition derby champion in Cheyenne till I joined the Army. And if there's a fight, I can still pick off a gopher with a headshot at two hundred yards.”

The lanky cowboy was now receiving respectful looks. Next to a good medic, a PSC valued no one more than the mechanic who kept overloaded, overstressed vehicles from breaking down in hostile territory.

“Bones'll handle our transport. Mac, Ian, Rick, you've all worked PRS.” Primary ring security was the innermost circle of defense protecting the principal. “Any of you do much driving?”

Ian raised a hand.

“We need more drivers. In fact, we need more personnel across the board. We've got two stationary security sites, and I want primary ring on at least every shift to be Special Ops. Add convoy duty and miscellaneous, and let's say minimum two dozen more Special Ops and a hundred third country nationals for support. And gear and transportation for all the above. Cougar, what all do you have in the pipeline?”

The logistics manager looked unhappy. “I'm afraid it's not so easy. There are budget considerations.”

“What does that mean?” Mac demanded.

“What it means, I'm betting,” Ian cut in sardonically, “is that Khalid screamed loud enough to get his PSD, but that's about all he's got. Are these ‘budget considerations' the reason Condor walked off with a level one PSD instead of DynCorp or Blackwater? I've been wondering.”

“We did come in with a bid the embassy considered commensurate to this mission,” Cougar answered stiffly. “DynCorp and Blackwater declined to tender a bid. That was one reason Condor obtained the contract.”

“And the other?” Mac challenged.

“For that you'll have to ask your team leader. Khalid himself put in the deciding vote when he saw Steve Wilson was our proposed detail leader.”

So Khalid did remember him. Steve answered the battery of eyes with a shrug. “I did liaison work with Khalid's muj militia after 9/11. So did Phil. Haven't seen or heard from the guy since. Have you, Phil?”

At the medic's head shake, Steve went on. “Bottom line, then: what do we have?”

“If we go easy on transport, we might squeeze out another half-dozen Special Ops.” Cougar shuffled through a sheaf of papers. “For TCNs, Condor has about a hundred Guats and Sals on contract from Central America, including a few officers trained by our own Special Forces. We've got Gurkhas too and can get more.

“Vehicles—that Suburban out there's the nicest for limo duty. We've got quite a few armored Hummers at our main base for convoy protection. Weapons, ammo, comm gear—we've got some stock. And once you get your wish list together, we've got a cargo flight chartered from Jordan next week.”

If not particularly happy with Cougar's summary, Steve was philosophical. There was always a disconnect between what the team on the ground considered essential to carry out a mission and what HQ was willing to shell out. Too big a disconnect and the team walked—or someone got killed. As team leader, you pushed for the optimum, then made do with what you got.

“Okay, let's see those blueprints of Khalid's place.”

As the pedestrian gate clanged shut behind Steve, Amy let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Never could she remember feeling such a fool. An incompetent fool, at that.

She conjured up a composed expression before facing Jamil. “I'm sure glad to see you safe.”

“Yes, I saw you leaving with the two foreign men.” Jamil's glance took in Amy's unorthodox head shawl as he closed the distance between them. “I hoped they were bringing you back here. I didn't know where else to go.”

“No, that was exactly the right decision. But how did you get in?” Amy looked past Jamil to the cinder-block partition over which he'd swung himself. “Did you just climb over the wall from the street?”

“Please forgive me. I did not wish to explain to the
chowkidar
how it was I had come to lose you.”

“No, that's okay, except if you can hop the wall that easy, so can anyone else. We'll have to do something about that.” Amy hated to admit that Steve Wilson was right about anything.

Jamil was still breathing rapidly, and he swayed slightly on his feet. Then Amy saw that a blood-stained bandage was thrust into one of his cheap plastic sandals. “What happened? You were hurt in the explosion!”

“It is nothing. I stepped on some broken glass.”

“Well, it's going to need to be cleaned at least. Come on. Let's get you out of this dirt.”

The woman in the black chador, presumably Rasheed's wife, Hamida, drifted after them as Amy led the way into the villa and across the interior courtyard. By the time they reached the salon where she'd met with Bruce, Jamil looked paler than before, and he sank without protest into a plastic chair. Hamida paused in the doorway.

Digging out a spare T-shirt, Amy used it to dust off the card table. “Would you please ask her to bring some water?”

Jamil roused himself for a quick phrase. As the woman disappeared, Amy pulled out her first aid kit and began sorting its contents. A roll of gauze. Antibiotic cream. Antiseptic swabbing wipes. Tweezers. Hospital tape.

Jamil's dark eyes showed a glimmer of life. “You are a doctor?”

“No, just a few first aid courses required to work in the refugee camps. Here, let me take that off.”

The bandage looked clean and new, a headscarf or carrying cloth snatched up perhaps from a market stall in the chaos of the bombing. Amy didn't pursue ethical questions because the wound itself was more extensive than Jamil had intimated—a deep, jagged slash that must have been excruciating to run on.

By now Hamida was back with a plastic bucket filled with water.

Amy dredged up a thank-you from that Dari phrase book. “Tashakor.” She dipped an unstained portion of the bandage into the water, but Jamil lifted the wet cloth from her hand. “No, please, you should not have to do this.”

Competently, Jamil wiped dirt and blood from the wound. By the time he was done, sweat beaded his forehead, and he offered no dissent when Amy broke out an antiseptic wipe to clean the gash. He flinched as Amy used tweezers to pull out two lingering slivers of glass but made no other sound. Nasty though the gash looked, it wasn't going to need stitches. Spreading antibiotic cream generously, Amy reached for a roll of gauze.

But here she hit a snag. Amy had neither scissors nor other means to cut the gauze. Of course! Airline regulations had necessitated her moving that piece of her first aid kit into checked luggage.

Producing a knife from somewhere in his baggy attire, Jamil leaned forward to slice the lengths of gauze Amy measured off. He was breathing hard again by the time he'd finished, and he closed his eyes, slumping back into the chair, as Amy taped the new bandage into place.