Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

Al-Attas struggled against the restraints, which squeaked with the strain but held him firmly in place. “I was asleep, you fool. That is why I was in bed when your men assaulted me.”

A long period of silence stretched between them before Hafiz said, “You really don’t know, do you? Look down at your clothes, Chief Engineer. Tell me where all of that blood came from.”

Al-Attas managed to lift his head to stare down at his chest and legs. Huge caked splotches of maroon covered the long shirt, which was filthy. He could feel the stiffness of the dried blood on his skin. “What has happened? Was I in some kind of accident? I remember nothing like that. Am I going to be all right?”

Hafiz had heard enough; he pushed back the chair and stood up, crossing his arms. “I doubt it.” He pushed a button on an electrical cord, and a doctor came to the bed. “Give him a sedative to calm him, and keep him hydrated. I don’t want him completely unconscious, because I have more questions. Others will need to see him. Tend to this personally, Doctor. Then have him cleaned up and lock him back down tight.”

“Yes. I understand,” said the doctor, a small man with a well-trimmed beard. “Please leave a guard in the room with us.”

“Of course.”

“Why are you doing this? Why have I been taken prisoner?” The face of the man on the bed was twisted in confusion, and tears tracked down the sides of his face. He was sobbing like a baby, his body shaking in growing despair.

The doctor busied himself at a cabinet, tearing open a plastic bag to prepare a sterile syringe.

Sergeant Hafiz had moved to the foot of the bed. “I know you cannot understand this, Chief Engineer, but the reason that you are being restrained and kept under guard is very simple—you are one of the most dangerous men I have ever met. You are a ruthless and merciless and ingenious killer. Now go back to sleep while I decide what to do with you.”

“No!” The shout was hard and came from deep within. “No! I am the chief engineer! I am in charge here!”

“Not any longer, my friend. Now you’re just one more piece of paperwork for me.” He grabbed al-Attas by the left arm and held it steady while the doctor swabbed the skin clean with alcohol, found a vein, and worked the needle in. Within a few seconds, the heart distributed the strong liquid throughout the body, and al-Attas’s eyelids fluttered, then closed as the body went limp.

“I’ll send in the guard,” Hafiz said and left, looking at his wristwatch on the way through the door. Time was short, and he had work to do.

Al-Attas was not only a fiend but had been a well-protected one during the long months while the bridge and the complex of tunnels were constructed. Hafiz would not summarily dispose of him without first getting permission from General Gul of the ISI, a routing of messages that would take hours. Eventually, the result would be the same, a bullet in the head, but Hafiz wanted the execution order in writing before he murdered this peculiar genius. Otherwise, his own head might also be on a pike.

Even with all of that in progress, the advance team from the camp of Commander Kahn would be arriving within a few hours to inspect the facility, and Hafiz would provide the full tour. He understood that the inspectors would question the presence and condition of al-Attas in the infirmary. It would be best to simply tell the truth, including that the death warrant was in progress. The man had been crazy long before Hafiz ever arrived at the bridge. It wasn’t the sergeant’s fault. Better to prove that the lunatic was in custody by simply showing him off like an exhibit and letting the inspectors confirm his actions. The man was weak, tied down, drugged, and harmless.

Hafiz anticipated a pressure-filled few days of face-to-face meetings but was confident that the inspectors would approve the overall project. He would report that all of the important work was on schedule. The Commander could transfer to his new home before the first snows fell and closed the high passes.

“TIME TO GEAR UP, boys and girls.” Master Gunny Double-Oh Dawkins was at a long table in a large hangar in the special ops area of Kandahar, and his deep voice echoed in the emptiness. The table was strewn with equipment, each piece neatly arranged in its own space after he had double-checked every item. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Sybelle Summers grinned at the boyish enthusiasm of the big man, who would have preferred to be heading into action himself rather than consigned to the supporting role as jumpmaster. She took over the briefing. “Less than a dozen people know what’s happening tonight, and six of us are standing here. Because of the leaks back in the States, everything has been kept mission specific and names have not been used. There’s nothing in the system. So, let me introduce the two gentlemen who will be doing the flying for us. We will just refer to them by their family names, Major and Captain.”

Both of the slender men nodded. They wore standard olive green flight suits, with no identification patches. “Sir Jeff, who is bankrolling this little adventure, helped keep things outside of the U.S. information chain by getting us that slick ride over there, and its pilot team. These guys are from 47 Squadron, the special ops flight of the Royal Air Force. Each is a former fighter pilot who now specializes in flying low, fast or slow, and at night. Questions?”

Kyle acknowledged the fliers. “Good by me. Nobody flies for 47 Squadron by accident.” When there were no further questions, the pilots left the little group and went to the plane to start the preflight checks.

“Neither of them knows details of the mission. Only that they are to fly to exact coordinates and slow down enough for you to jump, then return to Kandahar, take on fuel, and go right back to their RAF base in Lyneham, England. Enough about that.” Summers kicked the explanations back to Double-Oh.

“For the jump, I decided to go with equipment that Coastie is familiar with,” he said.

“Coastie?” Beth arched an eyebrow. “That’s my code name?”

“No. It’s what we called you behind your back when we didn’t know you. Now we say it to your face, because we like you. You got a problem with that?”

“No. I guess you have to call me something, and Marines are not big on creativity. Coastie it is.”

“Anyway, instead of the new T-11, we will use the older T-10 chute that she learned on. Straight rig, parabolic canopy, and a twenty-foot static line.”

“I’ve done the T-11,” she said. “I could handle it. A jump is a jump.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Coastie.” Dawkins glared at her. “Remember, I’m the jumpmaster. You just listen.”

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

“Damn. Anyway, you’ll thank me later because the T-11 would require a couple of more seconds of free fall, and you won’t have much airspace to begin with. It would be helpful if you did not hit the ground before your parachute opened.”

“I’m light as a feather. You would fall faster than me, you big lump.” She knew that she almost had him grinding his teeth.

Summers broke in. “Quit teasing, Coastie. Get serious and listen.”

“Now. Weapons and gear. Although you’re both snipers, there is no need for a long rifle on this little job. So you each will have a sidearm and a CAR-15 with retractable butt stock and two hundred and ten rounds of ammo. Kyle’s has an M-203 grenade launcher, with a vest of seven high-explosive-dual purpose rounds. A few hand grenades, sat phones, some extra ammo, three days of MREs, video and still cameras, binos, maps, GPS, compass, protractors. Not a combat load, but you are not there for a gunfight. Questions? Nothing?”