Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

Dave Hunt was suddenly tense and nervous. It was just too perfect. This was no soft diplomat they were after, and if Curtis was in the wind, then maybe he had left something behind to delay his pursuers. Something else was in play.

“Everybody stop in place. Don’t make another move,” he ordered on his radio. “Get the civilians out of here, then rendezvous back at the rally point. Touch nothing. Retrace your footsteps. Watch for possible booby traps.”

Just before he could repeat the order for the agents who had entered Curtis’s empty home, one of them turned off a dripping faucet in the kitchen. That closed the circuit for a dynamite bomb hidden in a wall of the foyer where several agents had gathered. The following explosion blew apart much of the ground floor, and the rest of the town house collapsed in a fireball.

THE VIPERS HAD GIVEN up watching the idle convoy, settled down on the bridge, and shut off their engines. Lieutenant Farooq thought that was wise; no use wasting petrol, dangling in the sky watching him do nothing but drink tea. The only thing bothering him was whether the busy Americans were going to leave any witnesses, but he reasoned that if they had wanted him dead, he would already be dead. They probably wanted him to report exactly what had happened, and he would.

“Sergeant? Are the radios working yet?” Play the game.

“No, sir. A lot of static.” The sergeant pointed to the sky. “Probably one of their electronic warfare planes is up there, jamming everything.”

Farooq shielded his eyes and looked up the road. He threw out the remains of his cup and climbed from the Humvee. “We have company coming, Sergeant. Form the men in ranks. No visible weapons,” he ordered, straightening his uniform.

A little blue golf cart carrying two men in camouflage uniforms with protective vests and helmets was humming toward them from the bridge, an enlisted man driving an officer. Farooq’s men were in formation by the time the cart pulled to a halt and the passenger got out. “Captain Richard Mendoza, U.S. Marines,” the man said.

Lieutenant Farooq saluted and introduced himself.

The salute was returned. “Well, Lieutenant, I’m paying a courtesy visit to thank you for not interfering with our work today.”

“Those were not my orders, Captain. Observe and report only.”

Mendoza knew that was a lie. The Pakistani officer had made the smart move to stay out of the way when he discovered he was so outmatched. No use for either one trying to keep secrets at this point. “We’re about done down there. I want to advise you that when we depart, it would be best for you to wait right here, or even pull back. We’re going to blow that bridge apart. My engineers estimated how much explosive would be needed, then doubled that amount. It would be a great risk to try to defuse any of it, because the clock is already ticking.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you for coming up.”

“Fine-looking troops you have here, Lieutenant. I would hate to have anyone needlessly injured at this point. Good luck to you.”

“And to you, sir.” Salutes were exchanged again, and Mendoza climbed back into the cart, which began the trip back to the landing zone. The Vipers were already winding up their engines and lifting off to make room for the Ospreys to retrieve the Marines. It appeared that the entire force was out of the tunnels and leaving. Farooq watched the departing captain, sorely tempted to grab a rifle and blow him to pieces.

As if hearing the thought, the cart stopped, turned, and came back. This time, Mendoza did not get out but just called to him. “Lieutenant, I forgot to tell you; two cruise missiles are on the way, one targeted on each of the support towers. That’ll be the end of it.” He cheerfully waved, and the cart buzzed away.

KYLE SWANSON WAS BACK in front of General Middleton’s office window again, relaxed, watching the tourists. He asked, “We ready to go after Charlie Brown now?”

“No. You just got back, and things are in an uproar over at the White House,” the general replied, leafing through a stack of colorful brochures. “This isn’t the time to drop another Green Light request on them.”

“Best time to do it, General, while everybody in the Sandbox is trying to figure out what happened at the bridge, and why we were so out front about it.”

Sybelle Summers was half-watching some talking heads on television discussing that very subject. “If the president’s goal was to send a message that we won’t ever stop hitting the terrorists, no matter where the chase leads, then he was successful. The TV people are constantly playing the videos of the center span dropping like an old Las Vegas casino being blown up, and then the missiles hitting the support towers.”

“It has everything the TV requires but a shower scene and a car chase.” Double-Oh Dawkins sipped from his ever-present cup of coffee. “Where you going on vacation, General?”

“I’m picking up my daughter and the grandkids in Richmond tonight and making the long drive down to the Cape to watch the Mars launch. That will be something they will always remember. After that, we’re going to Disney World. Then they go home and I break away for some deep-sea fishing.” He put the brochures in order, squared the edges, and put them aside. “What about our Coastie, Kyle? Did she make a decision before going on leave?”

“Not officially, sir. She’ll do it, though. The kid was made for this stuff, and she did great in Pakistan. Not only that, but she worships Lieutenant Colonel Summers.”

“As do we all.” The general chuckled.

“Fuck you very much, sir. I’m going to Disney World. Jesus,” Summers shot back as she changed TV channels, stopping at one on which the political talking heads were barking about the cost versus value of the Mars mission. She turned off the set and called loudly toward the door, “Liz? You got that FBI stuff?”

Benton Freedman walked in, carrying a handheld computer. “Got it all right here. You want a hard copy? I can send it to your BlackBerry.”

“Not yet.” She didn’t want him spinning off into techno-talk. “Talk to us.”

“Right. That Undersecretary Curtis fellow has disappeared, leaving a bomb in his residence, two agents killed and four wounded, another bomb found and defused at his office, his car abandoned in Maryland, la-da-da-da-da… and, uh, that’s it from the FBI.”

“Liz?” General Middleton arched an eyebrow.

“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Summers asked for the FBI material. I was being specific, but the CIA has some interesting new stuff. You want to hear that, too?”

“Yes, Commander Freedman. If you please.” The general sighed. The Lizard could be a curse.

“They’re no longer sure he is a mole for the New Muslim Order at all, sir. He has strong connections with them, but there’s no evidence that he actually is like a soldier or a guerrilla. More likely, he works with them on some things but also is a lone wolf, carrying out his own agenda. He was married to a Muslim woman, and they had a son, but both were killed during the U.S. bombing of Baghdad during Desert Storm. The CIA believes personal revenge to be his motivation. Financial records show his construction company had a stake in building the bridge.”

Double-Oh interrupted. “He sounds like one helluva disturbed creature. A facilitator doesn’t booby-trap his house and office. Too bad about his wife and kid, but shit happens in war. Anyway, what about right now? Is he on some mission here, or is he flying down to Rio?”

Freedman’s round face lit up. “ Flying Down to Rio. Ah. That was the first time Fred Astaire danced with Ginger Rogers. Black-and-white film, 1933. Neither of them was the star; that was Dolores del Rio.”