Jack Coughlin - An Act of Treason

“All four of you disobeyed your instructions. Nobody told you to bring back prisoners.” Waleed’s voice began to rise from the normal quietness, and the change was frightening. “You should have killed them on the spot. Instead, you dragged them back to our home ground, caused the destruction of one of our villages, and have left me to clean up your mess. I will not tolerate such disobedience.”

He pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger, holding down firmly on the stock to keep the aim true. Fariq and the man beside him pitched forward, their bodies flopping into the thirsty dirt that soaked up the blood as Waleed kept pounding them, ripping through an entire magazine of bullets. He gave the automatic rifle back to its owner, walked to the final two fighters at the wall, and personally removed their blindfolds. “You men were misled by that incompetent Fariq, and Allah has granted you a second chance at life. This time you will do better. I will have a new task for you that will earn you the right to honorably rejoin the Bright Path. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, Leader.”

“Yes, Leader.”

Waleed patted each on the shoulder again and said, “Good boys.” He went back to his office. Fariq was buried that night in barren ground far away.

WESTERN PAKISTAN

“W HERE ARE WE, J AVON?Where they taking us? What are they going to do to us now?” Jake Henderson was bewildered.

“Be still, Jake. Still and quiet.” Sergeant Anthony was trying to figure out those same questions.

Henderson was too nervous to listen. So much had happened during the past twenty-four hours that his nerves were stretched tight and his pulse raced. One minute they were getting ready to flay him alive, then there was the big explosion, then they were beaten some more, then they were out of the village, driven away in a comfortable SUV under minimal guard. “Why did they untie us? How come those Talibans that grabbed us are gone? Who are these new guys?”

“Jake, if I could answer any of those questions for you, I would. All I know for certain is that we are both still alive and unharmed.”

“I was harmed. Bitch cut off my tattoo.” Jake’s fingers touched the clean bandage around his bicep. The arm was still sore, and the vision of the sharp knives played over and over in his mind like a sports highlight reel.

Javon decided to ignore him. The boy would talk until his tongue fell out if he thought anybody would listen. Maybe some silence would chill him a bit. Anthony assessed the moment. No doubt things had changed dramatically for the two of them, but why? He rubbed his wrists. Loose handcuffs bound their hands in front of them, and all other restraints had been removed. They were in the back of a cargo truck, having changed vehicles twice during the night, and were now on a paved road with the sounds of other traffic. A single guard wearing local clothing sat opposite them with a rifle across his knees. He was an old guy with a belly and a big mustache and smoked a cigarette, hardly looking at the Americans after having given them some water and some spicy meat wrapped in what looked like tortillas. No use trying to jump him and escape, for there was nowhere to go. The threatening demeanor of their captors had entirely changed.

“Javon?”

“What is it, Jake?”

“We gonna be all right?”

“Dunno. We’re better off now than we were yesterday. Can’t tell you about tomorrow.” Anthony motioned to the guard, pointing to his own eyes and to the front of the truck. The guard nodded approval, and Javon crawled on his knees to a position just behind the cab and peered through a small window that let him look over the shoulders of the driver and another guard. Far ahead was a sparkle of light, a fat dome of man-made illumination. He got back into his seat.

“What’s out there, Sarge? Where we at?”

“God damn, Jake, give it a rest, will you? I think they’re taking us into a city. Now shut up and try to sleep.”

ABOARD THE VAGABOND

“I HAVE TO LEAVE .”

“You’re not ready.”

“A message came in from Washington an hour ago. Jim Hall of the CIA. I’ve been ordered to report to Bagram.”

“I repeat. You’re not ready for operational status.” Sir Jeff slid his reading glasses down his nose and peered over the steel rims. “Not in Afghanistan or anywhere else.”

Kyle drank some coffee. “Running and stamina are the only things that are below par for me right now. I’ve been exercising for hours every day for weeks but still don’t quite have my wind back. Can’t do a real five-mile run on a tub like this.”

“This tub, as you call it, is a one-hundred-million-dollar yacht. Show some respect. And I know you use the treadmill in the gym.”

“Not the same.”

“I agree.” He smacked the arms of his wheelchair in mock frustration. “I’ll be glad to get rid of this damned thing and at least do a mile. Even so, the treadmill is no substitute for a military course.”

“No heavy pack, no curves, no rocks underfoot, no obstacles. I jog along, listening to music.”

“You’re not ready, Kyle. Tell them that.”

“I’m ready enough. Get on shore, work out some kinks, get my endurance back up. I’ll be ready to kick ass.”

Sir Jeff smiled. “Who are you lying to, Kyle-me or yourself? Our friend Jim Hall is putting together a package, and you think there will be time to do some conditioning? No, the CIA, particularly Jim, does not work that way. He will expect everyone, including you, to arrive ready to roll. He will throw you right into the cauldron. My guess is that it will be in Pakistan.”

Swanson pushed back the chair and walked to the rectangular window, rubbing a hand along the wainscoting of polished African mahogany. “Ahhh. I’m bored, Jeff.”

“I know that. I’m bored, too, but I’m in this wheelchair, you see? Reality is involved, Kyle. Boredom sometimes must be endured. Then there’s the quality of your shooting to consider.”

“I’ve been banging skeet on the boat and running bullets through Excalibur at floating targets.”

Sir Jeff laughed derisively. “Neither of those is the same as real shooting under battlefield conditions. Another reason that you’re not ready. So there is your wind to consider, and also your shooting eye. Tell me truthfully, lad, could you take out a terrorist at four hundred meters today? Five hundred?”

“Yeah. Sure I could. I could have taken down those pirates on that speedboat, except you wanted to play with them instead.”

“That was more important. It was a field test of a new weapons system that you helped design and, I shall remind you, will bring you a lot of money in your declining years.”

“Still, I could have picked them all off. Sniping ain’t exactly rocket science.”

“Actually, it is. Maybe even more difficult, because space rockets are not living beings and do not shoot back.” Cornwell rolled his chair forward and peered at Swanson with eagle eyes. “You obviously are not sure you’re ready at all, and that uncertainty is hardly the correct frame of mind for some world-class combat shooting. By the way, Hall did not ask my opinion, or I would have advised him to find someone else and let you finish your rehabilitation in peace.”

“Oh, bullshit, Jeff. How many missions did you refuse just because you had a couple of bumps or bruises? Hell, I know that story of how you had a broken arm and lied and bullied your way aboard a plane for a jump.”

“Don’t change the subject. That was just a training exercise. Kyle, it is not proper for you to take on a special ops mission just to salve your ego. Not just for a lark. Muck it up and there could be hell to pay.”