Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

His own laugh comforted him, and he felt for the edges of the cloth and adhesive bandages and tore them away, baring the stitches and the wounds. Where were his clothes? The knives and his scimitar? No matter. Naked and pure, he left the room, sauntered down the empty hallway, and scaled a short ladder that led into a gun pit. The push of a button opened the wide firing slot, and he wiggled through, leaving a trail of blood.

Once outside in the night, he could hear the songs from the stars as he breathed deeply in the rain-cleansed air. Voices called for him to hunt, and to answer them, he squatted on a rock beside the river, cupped his hands around his mouth, and loosed a single, screeching howl.

The sound ricocheted down the still valley to where the Taliban patrol was slowly working along a muddy path. The ISI soldier who had been manning Post Three prior to becoming the shepherd for this herd of stumbling goats had just told them for the fiftieth time to shut up and keep moving when he heard the familiar cry, and he stopped everyone in their tracks. He grabbed the radio on his belt and raised the command post in the tunnel. “Get Sergeant Hafiz for me right away. Tell him the Djinn is loose outside; position unknown.”

LIEUTENANT COLONEL SYBELLE SUMMERS and Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins of Task Force Trident caught a ride from a special operations base in North Carolina all the way to Afghanistan aboard a Lockheed Martin C-5M cargo hauler. The Galaxy, affectionately called a FRED by its crew—the acronym for Fantastically Ridiculous Economic Disaster—was the most expensive flying machine to operate in the U.S. Air Force.

Thousands of pounds of equipment, from cargo pallets of food and ammunition to helicopters and howitzers, were buckled down in the cavernous lower-deck cargo bay. Five dozen troops rode in the rear upper-deck troop compartment, with seats to spare. Sybelle and Double-Oh occupied positions on the forward flight deck that was reserved for dignitaries.

The flight had been a long, droning, boring crossing of the Atlantic that required alternating flight crews, and twice they made the slow rendezvous with refueling tankers and then roared on. The dull whine of the four new General Electric engines was quieter on this updated model of the Galaxy, but it was always there, burrowing into the eardrums.

Sybelle played her tunes, tried to nap beneath a light blanket, or immersed herself in an almost indecipherable textbook on international economic theory that was part of her program with the Lejeune Leadership Institute. As she studied some arcane charts, she wished she were down in the dirt, chasing bad guys, but to punch another notch on the career belt, the warrior had to rest while the student finished her master’s degree. The constant droning in her ears was maddening. How could people really sleep on any airplane?

Across the aisle, Double-Oh snored. He was a Marine, by God, and slept when he was told to, anywhere, anytime. In his pocket was a little black notebook in which he had been jotting reminders about the best way to throw Kyle and the little Coastie out of an airplane over Pakistan in about twenty-four hours. Getting them to the target area would be the jobs of the pilot and copilot of the small jet, but as jumpmaster, it would be his plane, and he would personally handle everything else. Swanson and Ledford would face enough risks on the ground without having to worry about just getting out of the damned plane OK. Nothing would be left to chance.

Upon entering Afghan airspace, the Galaxy crew activated the Pacer Snow onboard defense system of flare dispensers and the antimissile warning system. Everyone straightened up, scratching and yawning, as the giant aircraft began its descent, then settled easily onto the runway at Kandahar and was guided to its parking ramp. Unloading began immediately after the clamshell doors spread open in the back, and the nose of the plane swung up and out of the way. The two Trident Marines walked down the rear ramp into the night chill and found a Humvee waiting to take them into the heavily guarded special operations section of the base.

Once in the building, Summers dialed a secure private number on her sat phone to give a coded confirmation of their arrival to the Lizard in Washington. Only code names were used. “Queen and Knight are in place.”

“Roger that, Queen,” replied Commander Freedman. “Shaky and Coastie arrive your location approximate twelve hundred.”

“Queen, out.”

She terminated the call. No names had been used, even on one of the most secure frequencies available. “Shaky” was an old nickname of Swanson’s that referred to his unusual habit of physically quaking after a particularly hard and heated battle, his way of releasing the self-imposed total lack of emotion during the fight. “Coastie” now applied to Beth Ledford.

“They are on their way and will be here by midday tomorrow,” Sybelle told Dawkins.

Double-Oh grunted approval. That gave them the rest of the night and all of the next day to prepare for the drop. “Let’s get some chow, then catch a few hours of sleep. I’m bushed.”

“How? Why? You didn’t do anything for the last twelve hours but sleep. You’re getting old, Master Gunny,” Summers said. “I was thinking more about going for a run. Stretch out the kinks.”

“You do what you gotta do, Ms. Lieutenant Colonel, ma’am. Act like some fool hoo-ah butter-bar second lieutenant if you want to. I, however, am wise beyond your tender years and am no longer tempted by such foolish things. I’ll meet you at our little plane at oh six hundred, well fed and fresh as a daisy.” He walked away.

THE DJINN GROWLED CONTENTEDLY, feeling strong and happy out in the air. He heard distant shouts and saw pinpoints of light flashing in the valley coming his way. Kneeling, he slathered mud over his naked body, from the top of his head to his toes, and the camouflage allowed him to slowly disappear into the blackness. Then he ran away, into the trees.

The valley seemed to be coming to life, with yells and brilliant cones of flashlight beams slashing the darkness, and he giggled as he circled onto the higher, rocky ground. The patrol went by below him. They were shouting and disorganized, strung out along the path and losing sight of each other, panting with effort. He descended behind them and followed unseen, picking up a short, thick tree branch for a weapon.

The last man in the Taliban column was fatter than the others and labored on the slippery slope, panting and falling farther behind until at last he gave up and slowed to a walk. As the patrol moved on, he called out that he had hurt his ankle and would catch up to them later. He sat on a smooth boulder to catch his breath, laid the AK-47 to the side, and lit a cigarette, drawing the harsh smoke into his lungs and exhaling with pleasure.

The Djinn was a few feet behind him, hidden in some brush and studying his target. The creature he was stalking was totally relaxed, immobile, and unaware. Rising in the shadows, the Djinn took two steps forward and swung the club as hard as he could. It slammed against the fighter’s ear so hard that it carried him off the big rock, and the Djinn leaped onto the dazed man and beat him to death. This is good. He stripped the victim. Warm clothing and a good weapon, and even some food in a pocket, with water in a metal container. Best of all, a dagger with a broad, curved blade in an elaborately decorated scabbard that hung from the ammunition belt around the blubbery waist alongside two hand grenades. He dressed, slipped on the sandals, and wiggled his toes. Much better. The rifle was undamaged, the knife sharp. Now I can really hunt. Where? More lights were pockmarking the valley, coming down from the crest and spreading out. He cut the throat of the corpse for good measure, then headed up toward the lights.