Don Pendleton: Savage Deadlock

All the while, lurking at the back of all this, like the gunfire that crackled at the edges of consciousness, there was the fear that a phalanx of militants would chance on their location. The PWLA was new, it was inexperienced and mostly made up of women like Yasmin who were from a relatively privileged and moneyed background, whose only experience of the arms they carried was in target practice. Those few who had run from their homes and fought fundamentalists and sometimes their own families in the bid to escape oppression had some familiarity with violence, and they tried to teach the others. But until the time came, no one in the camp knew how she would react.

It was terrifying if Yasmin stopped to think too hard about it. For the most part she tried to avoid such a train of thought. Still, on mornings like this it was hard to avoid. Soon the moment of decision would come. Would she be found wanting? Would any of them be found wanting?

She made her way back to the main section of the camp, exchanging a few words on the way. When she reached her tent, she checked the contents of her backpack. There, nestled among the few belongings she’d bought with her, was the sealed and insulated flask.

She took it out and sat looking at it, trying to guess what had happened since she’d left home. Her father and brother would have been given a tough time by the security service, but she figured they could ride it out. There had been no official communiqué from the PWLA to the government as yet, but it wouldn’t take too much for any half-intelligent security man to work out what was going on. She was sure her disappearance would be investigated, and the information she had gathered would eventually be noted. She had been careful, but she was no industrial spy. And then it would be only a short leap to the discovery that this flask was also missing.

With the security of the Pakistan nuclear program breached, she knew that there would be a panic in the corridors of power. This could only be good for her cause. She had little regard for the average intelligence of the political mind, and less so for the average military mind. First they would yell for revenge and mindless action. It was only after they had passed the initial flush of testosterone and adrenaline that they would start to think about what they could really do....

That was when the negotiations would begin.

The fear of biting reality gnawed at her gut.

It couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Three

The early morning wind was biting as it swept along the National Mall. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was running through the green. He felt sharp and awake, ready for Brognola’s brief about the current situation—whatever it was.

He soon had his chance. The big Fed was sitting at a bench they often used for outside meetings. Brognola was looking down, lost in thought, but the sound of the soldier’s pounding footsteps approaching caught his attention. He had two coffees, and as Bolan came to a halt, stretched and then sat down beside him, Brognola handed one over without a word.

Bolan sipped the warm liquid. “Whatever’s up, it must be serious to drag you out this time of the morning.”

Brognola stared out at the monuments for a moment before speaking. “Yes, something has come up. It’s a delicate one.”

Bolan chuckled. “It always is, Hal. Always...”

The big Fed rose to his feet and indicated that Bolan follow him. The two men walked along the Mall in silence. Taking his cue from Brognola, Bolan refrained from questions and took in the memorials and statues that they passed on their route. For each example of heroism and achievement, he knew there were hundreds that remained unremarked and unnoticed. Maybe it was better that way. Certainly there were times when it was better that the people had no idea of how close to disaster they had come.

He didn’t bother to speculate on what Brognola had lined up for him. A clear mind was always the most receptive.

Even so, he was a little surprised to see two men in Pakistani Armed Forces regalia seated in uncomfortable silence in the private room Brognola had rented in a Georgetown restaurant. From their body language, it was apparent that neither was pleased to be there and that they had a frosty relationship with each other. Hal introduced the older, bulkier man as Major Usman Malik of Pakistan Military Intelligence, and the younger as General Tariq Sandila. Bolan was interested to learn that the higher-ranking officer was younger than the major, and was clearly his subordinate. Neither man seemed happy about the inversion of ranks, and Bolan surmised that that might color whatever was about to come next.

Brognola took his seat. Malik leaned forward.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brognola, but you have not introduced me to your associate.” He bristled. “This is a most delicate matter, and I would like to know just who is included in the information chain.”

Bolan noticed the ghost of a smile and the slightest indication of a head shake from the younger man.

“Major,” Hal began carefully, “my colleague is operative...consultant. As such, discretion and security are paramount. It would be best if you knew as little as possible about the way we work. Just be assured that we do. After all, it was your National Command Authority who authorized your approach. Now what do you say we stop quibbling and get down to what’s important.”

“Very well. Sandila will brief you,” Malik snapped with barely disguised irritation. Bolan noted the dismissive way he had referred to the general.

Sandila seemed to be used to this. Ignoring the slight, he powered up the tablet on his lap and ran through his report briskly and efficiently, relaying the salient points.

Brognola was obviously familiar with this report, but Bolan listened attentively. He spoke only when Sandila had finished.

“Surely this is an internal matter?” he asked Brognola. “I thought it was policy not to interfere unless there were U.S. nationals endangered, or the interests of the administration were compromised.”

“That is the case,” Brognola answered smoothly. “And that is also the qualification. Shazana Yasmin became a naturalized U.S. citizen during her time studying at MIT. Her decision to return to Pakistan and work for her homeland doesn’t change this.”

Bolan’s eyebrow quirked. The scientist was obviously fiercely patriotic to Pakistan, and seeking naturalization in the U.S. had most likely been a matter of convenience.

He directed his next questions to Sandila. “General, do you have any reason to suspect that there may be a religious or ideological element to this?”

The younger of the Pakistani men smiled indulgently. “I know you in the West think that we are a hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism, but I think your own homeland security would have identified Dr. Yasmin as a potential threat if she were. I’m sure her defection isn’t based on religion. It is, however, ideological. And this is where I am concerned. Not because the PWLA is a strategic threat, but because its members are inexperienced. They are not, from what we know, trained fighters. Their vulnerability makes them dangerous.”

Bolan could see his point. These freedom fighters were fuelled by ideology, but they had no preparation for their chosen path, hiding out in a region that was rife with hardened Taliban fighters and other militant groups. Plus, they possessed both fissionable material and the knowledge to make it work. More than that, they were women. Their gender alone would enrage their opponents.

“Then our task is to locate Yasmin and bring her in, along with the fissionable material. How much, and how volatile?”

“A small flask, no larger than that coffee there,” Sandila replied, pointing to the large cup Brognola had carried in from the Mall. “As for its safety—well, that depends on the kind of treatment it receives in the wilds. A laboratory flask is lined and secure, designed to withstand a certain amount of punishment. But in the hands of someone who doesn’t really know what they’re doing?” He shrugged. “It could be a real problem. Prolonged exposure would have the inevitable effect.”