Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Are you sure?”

Josh looked at the Russian in disbelief. It was a stupid question, but he decided not to answer it directly. “You’re a scientist. You know chemistry and biology. I’m a soldier, and I know how war is fought. These guys are after us. Just look at the way that one is studying the ground, searching for the next footprint while the other two are watching the rocks, looking for us. They’re not out here for a pleasure hike.”

“What are we going to do?”

Josh pointed at the men in black turbans. “Those two are watching for any movement among these boulders and caves. The other one is the tracker. See how he never takes his eyes off the ground? We need to get out of this cave and vanish into the boulder field. But we have to wait until those two are looking the other way. Gather your stuff and be ready to move on my signal.”

Sorgei grabbed the cloth bag that held his extra clothing. The food he had saved on the last day at the compound was gone, but the bag of clothes made a good pillow and it was all he had to his name. “I am ready whenever you say.”

There was no real trail for the Taliban trackers to follow – only the footprints of two men, one wearing boots with a combat sole, and the other wearing a pair of pirated knock-off Nike walking shoes that were popular in Russia. The two who followed the lead man, the one with his head down, carried Kalashnikovs at the ready, as if they were expecting to use their automatic rifles at any moment. The tracker’s rifle was slung across his back. He led the way, studying the ground as if searching for a lost gold coin, sweeping his eyes left and right, often squatting to allow the shadow of the low sun to show an edge of the next footprint. The other two followed a few paces back and off to either flank, being careful to avoid making tracks that might mix with the ones their leader followed.

It was slow work, and Josh knew that these men were sent to find him and Sorgei the morning after the escape, when it was time for the first meal and the prisoners were discovered to be missing. While he and Sorgei took breaks to sleep, or just to catch an hour’s rest, the trackers apparently kept to their work, doggedly pressing on without rest. With nothing more than the beam of a flashlight to help them see the small ridges and depressions made by footprints on dry soil, they persisted. One step at a time, moving from footprint to footprint across the vast wilderness, they came without stopping to rest, slowly gaining ground until they were now within striking distance.

“These guys are good,” Josh whispered. “Too bad they’re not a few hours later. Given more time, this wind would have wiped out our footprints.”

Sorgei watched them over Josh’s shoulder and nodded silently. Then he whispered, “They will find us.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Josh agreed. “We aren’t going to be able to sneak away, now that daylight is coming.”

“What are we going to do?” Sorgei asked with an audible quiver in his voice.

“Kill them.”

“I am not trained to do that.”

Josh stared at the Russian. “Maybe not one at a time, but you have been trained as a killer of men.”

Sorgei lowered his eyes and nodded. “Perhaps you are right. But this is different. I have not had to look into the eyes of the man I destroy.”

“I’ll do the wet work.”

“Wet work?” Sorgei asked, confused by the term.

“You’ll see. But I’ll need to have you distract their attention.”

“I can do that,” Sorgei said. “Tell me what to do.”

“Okay, I have to get outside and hide so I can move around behind these guys. I’ll let them approach the cave, and when they are in position I’ll toss a small stone in here. It will be your signal. That’s when you need to come out with your hands up, as if you are surrendering. I’ll do the rest.”

“Is that all?”

“If you’re on speaking terms with God, it wouldn’t hurt to pray.”

With the plan laid, Josh watched the Taliban move slowly along the trail. Puffs of dust rose with each footstep, then blew away in the wind as they plodded down off the ridge into a low swale before starting to climb toward the cave. From where he watched in the deep shadows of the cave, Josh saw that there was one short stretch of trail where the cave entrance was invisible to the three men. He waited and watched as the black turbans slowly disappeared from view. Without hesitating, he used that narrow sliver of time to sneak on cat feet outside and into concealment behind a jumble of truck-sized boulders only a few yards away.

In three beats of his heart, he was hunkered down, perfectly still and listening. He heard nothing. These men are good warriors, Josh thought . Great discipline. They move without sound. No idle chit-chat, just the business at hand. He knew the reputation of the Pashtun warriors of Waziristan. Fighting was in their blood, and had been their legacy for a thousand years. In recorded history, no one ever defeated them. After a hundred years of trying, the British finally gave up the effort, licked their wounds and retreated, leaving Pakistan and the rest of their former Asian empire to fend for itself. Out-gunned, out-manned and facing the most powerful military force in the world, the Pashtun warriors fought to the death for their homeland and their traditional way of life. And Josh knew the three men coming after him were of the same breed.

Over the sound of the wind, Josh heard a soft footfall. Very slowly, he peered around the edge of the boulder. Guns at the ready, the three men were coming up the trail toward the cave entrance. Josh reached down to the heel of his right boot, loosened a rubber plug and then pulled it backward. An inch-wide by six-inch long ribbon of spring steel slid from its hiding place inside the boot sole. Half the length of the steel blade was honed to razor sharpness, and a wrap of black cloth tape covered the remaining three inches, forming a handle for this concealed knife that also served as the boot’s shank.

With the blade in hand, Josh eased around the boulder to stay out of view as the three men moved past. From the debris of broken stone at the base of the boulder, he picked a pea-sized pebble. The backs of the three Taliban were toward him as the pebble whizzed past them and rattled into the cave. He heard a shout and a few seconds later Sorgei stepped from the shadowy depth of the cavern, arms raised, offering himself up as a prisoner.

While the three were distracted with Sorgei, Josh sprung from the cover of the boulders. He knew he had to be quick and agile to kill all three before they could kill Sorgei and then turn the guns on him. The sound of his movement was almost non-existent. Good as these Pashtun warriors were, Josh Adams was even better. Right now, he was fighting for a cause even more crucial than a homeland or a way of life… he was fighting for his very survival.

Before the man even knew Josh was behind him, the blade swept silently across the throat of the nearest Taliban, slicing deep enough to sever the windpipe and the carotid arteries. Almost in slow motion, Josh saw the muzzle of the AK47 coming toward him as the second man whirled at the sound of his dead comrade hitting the ground. Josh spun toward the weapon, stepped inside the arc of the rifle barrel, parried and clamped the fore-stock beneath his left armpit, and in the same motion thrust the razor up and across the throat of the second Taliban. In less than five seconds, two enemy were dead, their heads nearly severed.

The tracker was caught unprepared, his rifle still slung across his back. But at his waist was a dagger, and in a heartbeat it was in the man’s hand. Josh crouched and with arms wide he started to circle to his left, staring into black, hate-filled eyes framed by bushy eyebrows and a full black beard on the snarling face of his enemy. The man said nothing, only gripped the dagger and circled, his eyes wide with anticipation. Twice, he lunged, and both times Josh narrowly dodged the edge of the blade.