Mike Maden - River of Gods

“I figure the government owes me.”

“What did Myers send?” Judy was referring to the sealed aluminum case with the Red Crescent logos marked Équipement médical d’urgence Holliday delivered to the hangar just before they left.

“Plasma, bandages, and antibiotics.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. We could’ve gotten that stuff from the base clinic.”

“And thirty thousand euros. Guess Mikey ran up a helluva medical bill over there.”

“Holliday said something about Myers’s security situation.”

“She might have kicked a hornet’s nest when she reached out earlier on Mikey’s behalf. I think she’s just being careful.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Easy as pie. In and out. Mikey’s supposed to be waiting for us at 0700. Put him on, drop the case, and we’re out of there.”

Their headsets both rang, three short beeps. Judy opened the line. “This is Hotel, over.” They agreed to use the NATO phonetic alphabet for security reasons, even though their line was quite secure.

“Hotel, this is India, over. Is Papa with you? Over.” Ian stressed the second syllable correctly. His Scottish brogue rumbled on the headsets, like a drunken Ewan McGregor whispering in her ears.

“I’m here. What’s shaking?”

“The situation on the ground is changing rapidly. Looks like a convoy is heading your way. ETA 0720 at current speed.”

“What are the particulars?”

“I’ve got eyes on one APC, five trucks. I’d estimate fifty combatants, maybe less.”

“How do you know this?” Judy asked. Pearce Systems didn’t have any drones in the area.

“The International Space Station is passing overhead right now. They’ve an optical camera on board for geological surveys they aren’t using at the moment.” Ian chuckled. “Or think they aren’t using. Unfortunately, it’s passing out of range. I’ll lose my link in two minutes.”

“Military?” Pearce asked.

“Malian army. I can see the flag.”

Judy shook her head. Gave Pearce the stink eye. “Yup. Easy as pie.”

“Repeat that, Juliette?”

“Never mind,” Judy said.

“You’re in contact with Mike-Mike, correct?” Pearce asked. Margaret Myers’s code name, not to be confused with Mike Early, code name Echo.

“Correct.”

“Have her communicate with her intel source. Echo’s got to be there on time or we’re all dead.”

“Roger that, Papa. One more thing. Intel source now has a name. ‘Female, unknown’ has been identified as Cella Paolini. Mike-Mike thought you might know her. Take care, you two.” Ian logged off.

“What?” Pearce shook his head, dope-slapped.

Judy caught Pearce’s stunned expression. “Who’s Cella Paolini?”

“She’s my wife.”

Afghanistan–Pakistan border

6 January

Troy Pearce scanned the village down below him through his binoculars. He was perched five hundred meters higher up on the mountain in the snow-covered trees, looking down, half hidden by a fallen log. The village was a poor excuse for human habitation, even by Afghan standards. A squalid collection of mud-brick buildings with pens attached for goats and chicken coops. A small boy, naked from the waist down, peed against the wall of his house, steam rising from the piss. The Pakistan border was just five klicks away.

“Wyoming is just like here?” Daud whispered. A bright, incredulous smile poked out of the thick, woolly beard of the twenty-five-year-old Afghani. His dark eyes sparkled beneath his dark brown pakol , a flat woolen cap with a thick round bottom made famous by the mujahideen martyr Ahmed Shah Masood. Daud popped another piece of snow into his mouth to keep his breath cold so as not to make a vapor.

“Maybe not as many Pashtuns, but yeah, where I come from is a lot like here. Pine trees, too. Here.” Pearce handed his friend the binoculars. The Afghani’s trusted AK-47 was slung across his back.

“I should like to visit Wyoming someday.”

“My grandfather built a cabin near the Snake River. I’m going to fix it up if I ever make it back there.”

“If? Don’t speak like that, my friend.”

“ Inshallah , then. And you’re more than welcome to come.”

“ Inshallah? You are Muslim now?” Daud’s smile was infectious. He handed Pearce back the binoculars.

“Not exactly.”

“If I came to the States, I would finish my engineering degree. America has the best engineering schools. Everyone knows this.”

“What kind of engineering?”

“Civil. My country needs more roads and bridges if it is going to develop properly.”

I admire your enthusiasm, Pearce thought to himself. You’re going to need a helluva lot more than roads and bridges to drag this dump into the twenty-first century.

“I have an uncle in Texas. Perhaps a school there.”

Pearce shook his head. “Stanford is the ticket.”

“It is difficult to enter, yes?”

“Maybe I can pull some strings for you there.” Like someone once did for me, he thought. Changed his life. Without Stanford, he wouldn’t be here.

“You like to fish, Daud?”

“I don’t know. I have never fished.”

“What? How is that even possible?” Pearce took a rod and reel with him everywhere he could.

“We eat goats around here, mostly. They cannot swim.”

Pearce scanned the village again, then the thick trees around it. “You think Khalid’s still coming?”

“Where else would he go? His wives are here and it is cold, is it not, and nearly night?”

Pearce nodded. He and Daud had led a small band of fighters to observe the village below on a rumor that the local chieftain, Asadullah Khalid, a Taliban commander, was returning from Pakistan today with a load of RPGs, traded for heroin bricks cultivated in the valley. Their goal was to capture him, but failing that, he was authorized to terminate the bastard. The trick for Pearce would be to keep Daud from killing him first.

The wind gusted. Pearce shivered despite the government-issue polypropylene thermals beneath his eclectic mix of local garb. Daud was clad in little more than woolen pants, a Canadian army surplus sweater, and a knitted scarf, but after six hours out here in the snow it was Pearce’s teeth that were chattering. He never ceased to admire the endurance of these mountain villagers.

Daud’s village was ten kilometers away. He was the son of the village chief and had studied English and engineering in Peshawar. He volunteered as a translator with the U.S. government, which is how Pearce found out about him. Daud’s village hated the Taliban almost as much as they hated Khalid’s village. It was easy enough for Pearce to recruit Daud and his men into the CIA’s war on the Taliban in this part of the country. He’d been embedded with them for the last two weeks.

“Why do your people hate the people in this village so much?” Pearce asked in bad Pashto.

Daud spit. “They are worse than kafir s, with no honor or loyalty except to themselves. In the last war they made alliances with the Russian pigs. Two of my uncles were killed by the Russians, and other men, too, and our women raped because of those dogs.”

“And now the Taliban,” Pearce added.

“And the Devil, too.” Daud spit again.

A branch cracked behind them. Both men whipped around.