Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

“Just what is it that you’re planning?” Jeff settled into a soft chair and rested his arms on the table. Adjusting his glasses, he riffled through the papers. “This is forbidding country, Kyle, and that big bridge looks as strong as the mountains around it. Your options are limited. No sane commander would go in there with less than a regiment and a month of planning. Terrain sand tables and such.”

“That’s why it has to be just me and Coastie. I think that if we go in quick, then we can see whatever there is and get out before anyone knows we’re there.”

“That’s your plan? You’re dreaming, lad.”

“Which is why I am picking your brain, old man. You must have learned something during all of those years with the SAS.”

Sir Jeff placed his fingertip on the bridge location on the map and studied the contours. “At least we should assemble a team of professionals to back you up on the ground, with adequate air cover. It’s quite a distance from a safe base.”

Kyle shook his head. “I don’t like the situation either, but right now, nobody on the ground is expecting us. Whoever is chasing Beth and me does not know where we are. We can use this window of secrecy to our advantage, if we can put something together fast.”

“Does General Middleton know what you’re up to?”

“Hell, Jeff, I don’t even know what I’m up to. All we have is a target zone and a lot of questions. Shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours to scout the valley and find the tunnels. The Lizard told us that security in the area is almost nonexistent. The floods cleared everybody out, and although the water has gone down, not many people have returned. They’re still in the refugee camps.”

Lady Patricia had been listening. “Why not go into the area disguised as part of a medical team, just as Beth’s brother did? One of these briefing papers said the Pakistanis were opening the area for an inspection and were ready to establish a new refugee camp there. Since you both have undergone some medical training in the military, you could be part of it.”

Kyle looked up at her. “Possibility. Beth, you have enough training as a medic to get by for a couple of days in a camp? We could be like volunteers, then drop off for a day and go into the valley.”

Beth glared at him. “Remember how you insulted my brother for doing humanitarian work? You could wear sheep’s clothing, Kyle, and carry the supplies, but you would never fit into a staff of doctors and nurses. Never. As soon as you opened your mouth, your hostile attitude would spill out.”

“Hey—”

Sir Jeff interrupted. “She’s right. You have too much of an edge about you to blend into their work, Kyle. Some covers work, some don’t. What else have we got?”

“Zip. Nada,” Kyle said, letting their remarks slide. “No personal identification paper, lack of assets, unfamiliarity with the target area, and no backup.”

“Very well, then. As Sherlock Holmes famously advised, one should never overlook the obvious.”

Beth asked, “What is obvious about this?”

“Are you jump qualified?” Jeff asked her.

“Yes. I got my silver wings at the Army’s Airborne School at Fort Benning.”

“Somehow, that is exactly what I expected from you,” Cornwell said with a chuckle. “Anything beyond that? HALO?”

“No, sir. I wanted to, but my Coast Guard superiors saw no need for me to qualify for high-altitude, low-opening. Heck, they didn’t even want me to go airborne with the basic five jumps, but I took up skydiving as a hobby and learned on my own until I could get my captain’s permission. Don’t worry. I can handle myself in the air.”

“There’s no need for a HALO on this one anyway,” Kyle said. “It’s a well-used air traffic corridor out there, everything from F-16s to cargo birds, even passenger jets. I doubt that anyone even looks up at the sound of a passing plane.”

Jeff tossed his glasses on the papers. “So the two of you jump at night. If you don’t break your legs or backs, or get captured, you should be able to secure a hide before daybreak, then lay up until you can finish the reconnaissance.”

“We jump in at night?” Beth was having difficulty keeping a glow of excitement from her eyes.

“Twenty-four hours maximum,” Kyle agreed. “With minimum gear, not a combat load.”

“Sounds good,” she said.

Jeff rose stiffly to his feet. “By damn, I wish I could go with you. Just to jump out of a sturdy aircraft again would be a perfect tonic for these old bones.”

“Well, you cannot.” Lady Pat hooked her arm around him and kissed his cheek. “You would splatter yourself in some treetop in the middle of Nowhereistan, and I would have to go to all the trouble of getting your body back and burying you. It would ruin almost an entire week.”

“She Who Must Be Obeyed has spoken,” Jeff said in a grumpy Rumpole of the Bailey stage voice. “Enough of this for now. Dinner beckons.”

WITH AUTHORITY IN HAND from General Gul of the ISI, Sergeant Hafiz was free to act to impose order on the chief engineer’s chaos.

Everyone was in agreement that Mohammad al-Attas should be allowed to continue his work, but under much stricter control. An experienced ISI psychiatrist arrived at the bridge to assess al-Attas and prescribed a regimen of antipsychotic medication. Al-Attas, recovering from his wounds, participated in the interviews willingly and took the new pills without hesitation. Although his body healed rapidly from the ugly but superficial wounds, his mind was being put on a loose pharmaceutical leash. The psychiatrist promised that the chief engineer would be able to work all day long, without the wild avalanche of ideas that usually accompanied his thoughts. At the evening meal with the doctor and Sergeant Hafiz, he was given what he was told was extra vitamins and a mild narcotic to help him sleep, thanks to this carefully balanced chemical stew. An hour later, the chief engineer would be so tired and woozy that he would be happy to climb into his bed and sleep there like a dead man for the next nine hours. The Djinn had been tamed, but at what cost to the valuable brain of the chief engineer? They would just have to wait and see.

HAFIZ WAS TOPSIDE WHEN the first truckload of his new temporary security team rolled in. Although a regular army platoon was being readied for extended duty at the bridge and would soon be on the way, for now Hafiz had to make do with Taliban irregulars. General Gul had granted only a half a loaf, but it was better than nothing.

A sweat-stained man with a grizzled beard climbed from the passenger’s seat in the cab, wearing the normal soiled and patchwork clothing of a Taliban fighter. He paused to sling an AK-47 over his shoulder, then called out for the men in the back of the truck to get out and line up. Workers shied away from the vehicle, leaving them in the middle of an empty circle. They were a wild-looking crew, all beards and arrogance, wearing long baggy trousers, a hodgepodge of robes and shirts, sloppy turbans, and cartridge belts across their shoulders or around their waists. The men slouched against the truck or sat cross-legged on the ground and started to talk and smoke, ignoring everyone else. Within a few moments, they had established themselves as a nest of snakes, best to be avoided.

The leader approached Hafiz but did not salute or offer to shake hands. “Allahu Akbar,” he said. God is great.

Hafiz gave a curt nod. If the fellow wanted to be rude, that was fine. Keep it all business. It would not matter in a minute anyway. “How many did you bring?”

The man looked back. “We are nineteen in all. Seven in this truck, plus weapons, and the others will be here before nightfall. All have been in successful actions against the infidels.” He removed the automatic rifle from his shoulder and cradled it comfortably in his arms, almost pointing it at Hafiz.