Jack Terral - Battlecraft (2006)

These cops evidently weren't all that pissed off at him.

Mike still had the knife under his chador, and he was happy these members of the local gendarmerie were sloppy and ill-trained enough not to give him a thorough search. He looked out the bars at his captors, who were now filling out a report on his detainment. He studied the cell door, glancing down at the lock. Using skills acquired in his recent CIA training, Mike could see it was a worn ancient variety. The hole into which the bolt slid was enlarged through usage, and the bolt itself was badly worn. He reached down and pushed against the lock, shaking it. The policemen snapped their heads his way, and the sergeant growled something at him.

Mike smiled apologetically and stepped back. He walked to the rear of the cell and took off the chador, folded it neatly, and put it on the floor. He settled onto its softness, grinning inwardly to himself. The tumblers in the lock had rattled loosely when they were shaken. The lock had been used countless times over decades, and should have been replaced long before.

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2010 HOURS LOCAL

MIKEAssad was given a cup of tepid water and a piece of bread made from unleavened wheat flour. He ate slowly to make the sparse meal last longer, then took the water in tiny sips. After the sun went down, a very corpulent policeman came on duty. The others took their leave while the new custodian lit a lantern. He walked up to the cell door and peered in at the prisoner. After a scowl of warning, he went back to the desk in the front and sat down.

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2330 HOURS LOCAL

THEfat cop was asleep at the desk, his head down on his folded arms. His snoring was the blubbery sort common to fat people with sinus conditions. It made so much noise that Mike was amazed the guy could sleep at all. There was a marked advantage to it as far as the prisoner was concerned; it would mask any noise he might make.

Mike waited until it was obvious the fellow was deep in Morpheus's arms. Then he got slowly to his feet and pulled the chador around his shoulders after getting the knife from the lining. He tiptoed over to the cell door and carefully stuck the blade into the bolt hole. He applied some gentle pressure, working the blade deeper, then pried upward. The bolt moved hesitantly but steadily in the loose confinement, then came out. Now Mike put the blade between the end of the bolt and the bolt hole and pried yet again. It slid with a slight scraping sound until the door swung open on its own.

Mike stepped out of the cell and headed for the back door, but something caught his eye. A pistol harness complete with belt, shoulder straps, holster, weapon, ammo pouch, and two canteens hung next to the desk where Fatso snoozed in such deep contentment. Mike walked slowly over to the prize. He froze when the cop snorted loudly; but the guy drifted back to sleep after a couple of nasal whimpers.

The escapee took the belt and harness, then went to the door and looked out. The night was calm and empty, and he moved into the darkness, slipping his new treasure on under the chador.

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GREEN EMERALD RESORT AND SPA

SINGAPORE

6 OCTOBER

1530 HOURS LOCAL

THEPhilippine naval officer wore civilian clothing as he stood on Harry Turpin's veranda sipping a glass of Tetley's Bitter. The brew had been drawn by the houseboy from a keg behind the bar that had been sent directly from the English brewery to Turpin's home through a permanent arrangement. The Filipino would have preferred it cold, but the Brit Turpin, though far from his native shores for many decades, drank his beers and ales warm as he would have in a London pub.

Aguilando turned at the sound of footsteps as Turpin came out to join him. The Englishman's gaze was direct, betraying his curiosity. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Turpin. 'Arry Turpin."

"I am Ferdinand Aguilando," the visitor said. "I am the captain of the patrol boat once commanded by Carlos Batanza."

"What's 'appened to that bloke Batanza?" Turpin asked, though he knew the exact circumstances of the killing.

"He had an accident," Aguilando said. "A fatal one, unfortunately. I have been assigned to take over his boat."

"Right. So wot can I do for you, Captain?"

"I am taking up where Commander Batanza left off."

"Right. And?"

"I shall have more arms for sale quite soon," Aguilando said. "I would like to continue the same arrangement you had with Batanza."

"I 'ope there ain't no more officers who know about this," Turpin said uneasily. "I always prefer to deal with one bloke at a time as I did with the late Mr. Batanza."

"I assure you that you will see only me," Aguilando said. "We will rendezvous with your people for the transfer of the cargo, but I shall be alone when we meet to discuss business and make the sales."

"Right," Turpin said. " 'Ow soon will you 'ave a delivery?"

"Within a week or so," Aguilando said. "I have some recently acquired arms stowed in a safe place for the time being. I shall contact you when I have an exact date and time."

"I'll be 'ere," Turpin promised.

Aguilando finished his beer, shook hands with his host, and went outside for the golf cart ride back to the hotel building. Turpin walked to the window and watched the officer leave. When the Filipino disappeared from view, the Englishman turned. "You can come out now, Mr. Sabah."

Hafez Sabah stepped out from an adjoining room. "My brothers and I appreciate the very helpful services you are providing us."

"I don't claim to be sodding ethical," Turpin said. "It would be bad for me business if word got round that I was making a bluddy 'abit of buying back cargoes I sold to somebody else after they was stole."

"Whatever the reason for your aid in solving this problem, we remain grateful."

"So wot 'appens to this bloke then?"

"He will be dealt with in the same manner as was done with Batanza," Sabah said.

Turpin shrugged. "Then some other orficer will take his place."

"This time there will be no more Aguilando, Patrol Boat 22, or any of its crew," Sabah said. "Again I thank you, Mr. Turpin. Good-bye."

"Ma'al salama," Turpin said.

Sabah smiled. "Ah! You speak some Arabic, do you?"

"I picked up a bit during me Legion days in Algeria."

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NORTHWEST FRONTIER PROVINCE

7 0CT0BER

1400 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE Assad was now avoiding all places where he might come into contact with people. He had fresh water, ammunition, an ancient Webley .455-caliber revolver, and some chapattis , a flat, round, unleavened wheat bread he had found in the pouch on the back of the harness and belt he had lifted at the police station. The SEAL moved at a slow but steady gait as he traveled through the scrub-brush boondocks toward the Afghan border to the west. Because of a complete CIA orientation and briefing about his OA, Mike knew and appreciated the adventurous history of the land he now trekked through.

This was where the British fought the warlike tribes of the area in the nineteenth century. A long string of forts were constructed across the territory to contain the native rebels as well as thwart any expansionist activities of Czarist Russia. The biggest problem the British soldiers faced was the fierce resistance of the Pathans. Things got so bad that when the Northwest Province was created, the Pathans were given control of a strip of land along the Afghan border to appease them. This didn't make the warlike people all that happy, and they rebelled in fury at various times, fighting skirmishes with British troops over many decades As late as 1937, the Pathans attacked and massacred an entire British column in one memorable battle.

Now Mike continued to move cautiously through Pathan territory, the pistol loaded and loosened in the holster. As he kept his vigilance at a high level, he caught sight of the plentiful wildlife. Markhor goats, gazelles, and foxes were in abundance, and he knew the place must be a hunter's paradise. He was well into a long afternoon of travel when he suddenly noticed the absence of animals. Obviously something had frightened them.