Christopher Reich - Rules of Betrayal

“Removed? Why?” asked Jonathan.

“Sir, I’m telling you everything I know. Now let’s get moving.”

“Hold it,” said Jonathan earnestly, one smart, well-intentioned man speaking to another. “All this stuff can wait. A second before the hangar went up, I saw two jeeps driving out the far side, heading toward the cargo terminals. One of the jeeps looked like the vehicle Haq was loading the warhead into.”

At the mention of the word “warhead,” Nichols stiffened. “Did you see Haq with your own eyes?”

“The jeeps were too far away,” said Jonathan. “Why? Have you found him inside?”

Nichols studied Jonathan’s bruised face, the cut beneath his eye, the notch in his ear. “You the maniac that I saw running around in there trying to get at Haq?”

“Yeah.”

Nichols stuffed the paper back into his breast pocket. “No,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “We didn’t locate Haq or the warhead. There wasn’t time before everything started cooking off.”

“He got out the back,” said Jonathan. The images of the jeep were clearer now. He saw uniforms in the front seat and a hunched silhouette in the rear. A man covered by a blanket. He closed his eyes, willing himself to see more, to clear his mind and let his memory do the work, as Danni had taught him. The pictures grew more detailed, and with a jolt he opened his eyes. “It was Haq. He was in the jeep. I spent time with him in Afghanistan. I know the guy. He has the warhead. I saw him loading it into the jeep inside the hangar.”

Nichols leaned in closer. “You saw him loading the warhead into the jeep? Alone?”

“Balfour had a couple of physicists reduce it in size. I heard them say it was twelve kilotons. The whole thing looked like an oversized stainless-steel thermos.”

“Either way, we have the building surrounded. There is no chance Haq escaped.”

“Do you have his body?” Jonathan asked again.

“I already told you that we don’t,” said Nichols, growing irritated. “No one’s going near that hangar for a day to recover it. But take my word for it, there’s no way out except through the main doors.”

“Who told you that? The same Pakistani officers who are driving Haq in that jeep? Don’t you know what they say about these guys? ‘Not for sale, but always for rent.’”

The major bristled at Jonathan’s tone but was savvy enough to take his words to heart. “Colonel Pasha, come in,” he said into his two-way radio on his shoulder harness. “Your boys have the rear of the hangar covered, right?”

“Of course,” answered the Pakistani officer.

“And no one drove out of there?”

“Negative.”

Nichols looked at Jonathan and Danni. “You’re a hundred percent certain on that? We have a report of a couple of jeeps leaving the rear of the hangar prior to the explosion, possibly with Haq and the WMD.”

“Jeeps? No, nothing at all like that.”

“He’s lying,” said Jonathan.

“Shut it!” said Nichols. Then to Pasha: “Anything at all? I thought I saw a jeep trailing out the back.”

“Those were friendlies,” said Pasha.

“The guy’s lying,” said Jonathan, getting into the major’s space. “I saw them leaving. It was Haq. He had a blanket over him. You can’t believe him!”

“Listen here, cowboy,” said Nichols, clutching a fistful of Jonathan’s shirt. “I’ve trained up close and personal with that man for a year. He’s had my back more times than I can count. He tells me no one got out, then no one got out. Are we clear?”

“No, we’re not clear,” retorted Jonathan, not backing off an inch. “I’m telling you I saw Haq in a jeep. Are you willing to risk that he got away with the WMD?”

Nichols glared at Jonathan and at Danni, all the while shifting his ammo belt. “Fuck,” he said. “You’d better be goddamned sure.”

“I am.”

Nichols released his grip on Jonathan’s shirt. “Come with me.” The major stalked off to an open Humvee and climbed behind the wheel. “You said it was heading east?”

“Toward the freight terminals. A black jeep. Two Pakistani military officers in front.”

Jonathan and Danni climbed into the back and Nichols floored it, taking a wide arc around the burning hangar. As they drove, Nichols radioed for his subordinates to join in the search. “Mount up and follow me to the east side of the airport. Freight area. I got a report that one of the bad guys made it out the rear with the package. Call General Zoy and have him lock down the airport.”

“He’ll never do that,” came the response.

“Tell him it’s a direct order from United States Central Command.”

“Hey, chief, aren’t you forgetting something? This is their country.”

“The hell it is. Tell him he’s got a rogue nuke on the loose, and then see what he says.”

Nichols checked his watch, then turned and shot Jonathan the most threatening look he’d ever received. “That sonofabitch Haq has been gone ten minutes. Why didn’t you come to me earlier?”

“You’re late,” said the pilot as he shoved the forward door closed. “Find a place to sit and buckle up. We’re leaving.”

Sultan Haq started down the cavernous fuselage, squinting in the dim light as he made his way past jeeps and armored personnel carriers and various crates of military equipment. The jeeps belonged to the United States Army, as did the personnel carriers and every last piece of equipment loaded and secured aboard the Starlifter.

It was the greatest exodus of military materiel in history.

For seven years the United States military had sent its sons and daughters to the country of Iraq to free Iraq’s people of a tyrannical dictator and sow the seeds of democracy. Along with the soldiers, a constant stream of materiel poured into the country. Day in, day out, planes landed at airbases across the country. C-141 Starlifters carrying tanks, artillery pieces, and up-armored Humvees. Boeing C-19s filled with heavy trucks, mobile kitchens, and Kevlar vests. Great cargo ships docked at ports in the Arabian Sea delivering jeeps, ammunition, and pallet upon pallet of MREs.

Now the war was winding down. The American military was moving on. And it was taking its war-making apparatus with it. A total of 3.3 million pieces of military equipment was to be repatriated or sent onward to Afghanistan, where American troops were engaged in a fierce conflict. M1 Abrams tanks, Bradley Fighting Vehicles, Stryker armored personnel carriers, howitzer cannons-the list went on ad infinitum. The task was too great to accomplish solely with its own equipment, so the masters of logistics looked outside the military for ships and planes available to assist them. One of the firms contracted to help was East Pakistan Airways, owned and operated by Ashok Balfour Armitraj.

Collapsing into a makeshift seat halfway down the interior, Haq leaned his head against the bulkhead and drew a deep breath. He was sweating profusely, the fear and adrenaline and terror of survival and escape still gripping him, leaving his hands trembling. He yanked at the sleeve of his jacket to get at his watch, hating the Western clothing. It was almost seven o’clock. Reflexively, he touched the crate placed on the webbed seating next to him for reassurance. Takeoff was scheduled for 1900 local time. Military transports did not wait for unlisted passengers and cargo.

One after another, the Starlifter’s Pratt and Whitney turbine engines powered up. The plane gave a mighty shiver, then began to move. It taxied for several minutes, and Haq felt his anxiety lessen. Only then did he acknowledge the pain in his leg. He pulled up his pants leg and gazed at the chunk of shrapnel embedded in his calf. He saw that his shoe was filled with blood. He thought of his beloved brother Massoud lying dead on the hangar floor, his face shot away. And, less respectfully, of Ashok Balfour Armitraj, killed by his own ammunition.