Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

UNDERSECRETARY WILLIAM LLOYD CURTIS was still working through the shock of having his request turned down by the ISI. Such a simple thing! The secret police apparatus of one of the world’s most paranoid nations had refused to let him borrow one of their men for a special mission of mutual benefit at a critical time. A favor, refused. He needed a drink, but not at one of the usual Washington watering holes.

Instead, his BMW M3 seemed to find its own way out of the metropolis, away from the government, as the flush of embarrassment turned to anger. Fuck ’em. Requests for favors were seldom refused in his world, and he would remember this insult. For now, he just wanted to blow off some steam. He could do that during his next appointment. Just outside of Williamsburg sat a tired building that had obviously been a working man’s tavern for many years, and a big American flag hung listlessly in the August heat. His kind of secret place, where he could revert to his old self, the rough construction boss, Big Bill Curtis, and have a conversation that he could never have in some fancy Georgetown watering hole. He parked in the broad lot, where several pickups and Jap cars sizzled in the afternoon sun.

He rolled up his sleeves two laps to display the faded tattoo of a rather pitiful-looking dragon that he had picked up one long ago evening in Singapore, then walked into the bar and straight to a stool. “Gimme a cold American draft, pal,” he told the bartender, who brought him a Budweiser in a chilled mug.

“Ya know why them Muslim fucks don’t drink?” he asked out loud, turning heads. “They don’t know shit about making real beer. How long they been sucking up air on this planet? A couple of million years, or something, and they still haven’t figured out how to make beer?”

That drew a few laughs and started the conversation. Bill Curtis joined in as he let the back part of his brain deal with the problem. The Diplomatic Security Service had told him to go screw himself. Then the paramilitary tough guys chickened out after two of their punks got popped by Kyle Swanson. Now the damned, camel-screwing ISI decided not to get involved in a job on U.S. dirt, although he was about to pull the trigger on a big operation of which General Gul was intimately aware. Gul was creating some distance between them because of the investigation that was sure to follow.

“Can’t depend on the muzzies,” he told his new group of friends after ordering a pitcher of beer and joining them at their table. “You understand, don’t you? They have money out the wazoo, they have the oil, but they can’t buy respect. Ever see one of those Saudi princes’ homes, where they paint the statues around the swimming pool with big red nipples or gold cocks?”

A fellow in a checkered shirt, with dirt under his nails, added, “Rodney Dangerfield had it right. Can’t get no respect.”

“They don’t deserve any,” Curtis declared, emptying another glass of Bud. Damn, it felt good to be in an out-of-the-way bar with a bunch of strangers, just to be able to bitch and moan without consequence. Everyone in there had a story about their wives, their trucks, their bosses, or politicians. His was different, and he could not share it.

“Want something done right, you got to do it yourself,” he said. It was that thought he would take back to Washington. Curtis called for another pitcher.

“You got that right,” agreed another man.

Curtis laughed. Now to business. He turned from the bar and walked toward a corner table where a man sat alone, sipping a Corona beer. He wore clean jeans and boots, a sweat-stained golf shirt, and dark aviator-style sunglasses. His brown hair was short and neat. “Buck?” he asked.

Astronaut Buck Gardener acknowledged him, and Curtis slid into the other chair at the dim corner table. “Where’s the money?” the astronaut asked.

“In the trunk of my car outside. Is the gizmo finished?”

“Ready. At a hundred thousand feet, it will automatically pop a spark to jump between two wires in the propellant feed system, and the whole flammable vehicle will blow up.”

“And you’re sure you can get it aboard? Absolutely?”

“Yep. I’m on the support crew and will make the final safety inspection before the bird is ready to fly.”

Curtis stared at Gardener, who did not blink. He was not backing out. A hundred thousand dollars was waiting in the parking lot, walking-around money, a million more coming when the device was planted, and four million more when his astronaut wife, Erin, her spaceship commander lover, and their fucking Mars rocket were blown into tiny pieces. Damned straight he would do it.

AYMAN AL-MASRI OF THE NMO and Sergeant Hafiz stood on a discreetly designed terrace in what was to become the new residence for Commander Kahn. Overhanging rocks made the deck invisible from curious satellites, and it provided an expansive view of the valley below. The leader could take fresh air here. “Savage weather,” al-Masri commented as the thunderstorm pounded the surrounding mountains. “So mean outside, but dry in here.”

“Another special touch from the chief engineer,” replied Sergeant Hafiz. “I’m glad you approve of the living quarters. Rather bare and Spartan, but it can be organized in any way that the Commander would like.”

“He prefers a very simple lifestyle, actually. Even a fast hare gets tired after a long chase. He needs rest, lots of rest, but he won’t slow down.”

A snap of lightning was followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. “Work topside has been suspended because of the weather,” said Hafiz, pleased that the security inspection was almost done. “The interior work continues. I propose as soon as the new engineers arrive, they concentrate on finishing out the living quarters and adjacent corridors and rooms. The other work can proceed then, with the Commander already secure, with everything he needs.”

“Listen to that roar,” al-Masri said, deftly changing the subject. “Is the river going to flood again?”

Hafiz gazed out into the thick curtain of falling water. “I doubt it. This storm is just passing through. The big typhoon system that caused all of the trouble had stalled in the mountains and rained like this for almost three months. This should pass on about dawn.”

“When we were young soldiers, you and I spent a lot of time out in these typhoons. I would hate to do so now.” The al Qaeda man shuddered at the memory of those cold, forlorn conditions.

“It is better to be inside.” Hafiz agreed, but a second later he caught the real meaning of the man’s words. “Yet someone must stay out on guard.”

Al-Masri glanced over, and the dark eyes were piercing. “Have you heard from your patrols? Either the one down in the valley or the one that you sent out in relief? It has been some time.”

Hafiz was honest, knowing a lie would be detected immediately. “Not yet. The storm is playing havoc with the communications, but if you are set for the evening now, I will get back to my other duties. I want to get some of the chief engineer’s assistants into the main control room to see if they can get it up and running again, at least on a minimal basis.”

“That would be excellent, Hafiz. My own people are ready for some sleep after our long journey, and we can finish the inspection tour tomorrow. I readily admit that I have been most impressed with what I have seen so far.”

“Well, I shall leave, then. Sleep well.”

“And you will check on those patrols?”

“Yes, of course. I was planning to do that immediately,” Hafiz said.

“Leave me a radio. I would appreciate you contacting me as soon as you discover what has been going on out there. Let us hope the problems are just due to the bad weather.” The sergeant placed his own handheld radio on a table and left the New Muslim Order security chief standing on the overlook, his hands buried in his sleeves for warmth.