A Devil Is Waiting (5 page)

A good man, Ron, lying to his family so they wouldn’t worry about him. She’d been through two tours attached to an infantry battalion that suffered two hundred dead and wounded, herself one of them. But how could she tell that to this girl?

She drank her champagne down and handed the glass to her. “Don’t you worry. They’ve got a great base at Sangin. Showers, a PX, burgers and TV, everything. Ron will be fine, believe me.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” The girl was in tears.

“Now you must excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”

The attendant departed, and Sara opened her laptop, feeling lousy about having to lie, and started to write her report. At the Arizona military base, location classified, she had been
observing the new face of war: pilotless Reaper drones flying in Afghanistan and Pakistan but operated from Arizona, and targeting dozens of Taliban and Al Qaeda leaders.

It took her around two hours to complete. When she finished, she replaced the laptop in her shoulder bag. It had been a hell of an assignment—and where was it all going to end? It was like some mad Hollywood science-fiction movie, and yet it was all true.

Her head was splitting, so she found a couple of pills in her purse, swallowed them with some bottled water, and pushed the button for attention.

The young flight attendant appeared at once. “Anything I can get you?”

“I’m going to try to sleep a little. I’d appreciate a blanket.”

“Of course.” The girl took one out of the locker and covered her with it as Sara tilted the seat back. “Sweet dreams.”

And how long since I’ve had one of those?
Sara thought, and closed her eyes.

T
he dream followed, the same dream, the bad dream about the bad place. It had been a while since she’d had it, but it was here now and she was part of it, and it was so intensely real, like some old war movie, all in black and white, no color there at all. It was the same strange bizarre experience of being an observer, watching the dream unfold but also taking part in it.

The reality had been simple enough. North from Sangin was a mud fort at a deserted village named Abusan. Deep in Taliban
territory, it was used by the BRF—the Brigade Reconnaissance Force—a British special ops outfit made up of men from many regiments. The sort who would run straight into Taliban fire, guns blazing.

It was all perfectly simple. They’d got a badly wounded Taliban leader at Abusan, a top man who looked as if he might die on them and refused to speak English. No chance of a helicopter pickup, two down already that week, thanks to new shoulder-held missiles from Iran. Headquarters in its wisdom had decided it was possible for the right vehicle to get through to Abusan under cover of darkness, and further decided that a fluent Pashtu speaker should go in with it, which was where Sara came in.

She reported as ordered, wearing an old sheepskin coat over combat fatigues, a Glock pistol in her right pocket with a couple of extra magazines, a black-and-white checkered headcloth wrapped around her face, loose ends falling across the shoulders, leaving only her eyes exposed.

The vehicle that picked her up in the compound was an old Sultan armored reconnaissance car, typical of many such vehicles left behind by the Russians when they had vacated the country. Three banks of seats, a canvas top rolled back over the rear two, and a general-purpose machine gun mounted up front. It was painted in desert camouflage.

The three members of the BRF who met her looked like local tribesmen. Baggy old trousers, ragged sheepskins, and soiled headcloths like her own. They carried AK-47 rifles, were decidedly unshaven, and stank to high heaven.

One of them said, “Captain Gideon?”

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“We dispense with rank in our business, ma’am. I’m the sergeant in charge, but just call me Frank. This rogue on the machine gun is Alec, and Wally handles the wheel and radio. You can use the rear seat. You’ll find a box of RPGs to one side, just in case, ma’am.”

“Sara will be fine, Frank,” she told him, and climbed in as the engines started up and the trucks nosed out of the gates in procession.

“Convoy to supply outposts in the Taliban areas,” Frank told her. “Best done at night. We tag on behind, then branch off about fifteen miles up the road and head for Abusan, cross-country.”

“Sounds fine to me.” As she climbed into the seat, he said, “Have you done much of this kind of thing before?” Another truck eased up behind them.

“Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and this is my second tour in Afghanistan.”

“Forgive me for asking.” He climbed into the second bank of seats. “Get after them, Wally.” He lit a cigarette and shivered. “It’s cold tonight.”

Which it was—bitter winter, with ice-cold rain in bursts and occasional flurries of wet snow. The canvas roof offered a certain protection, and Sara folded her arms, closed her eyes, and dozed.

She came awake with a start as Frank touched her shoulder. “We’re leaving the convoy soon and going off to the left.”

She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that an hour had slipped by since leaving the compound. As she pulled herself together and sat up, a tremendous explosion blew the
lead truck apart, the sudden glare lighting up the surrounding countryside.

“Christ almighty,” Frank said. “The bastards are ambushing us.” As he spoke, the rear truck behind them exploded.

Passing through a defile at that part of the road, the convoy was completely bottled up and the light from the explosions showed a large number of Taliban advancing.

Guns opened up all along the length of the convoy, and Alec started to fire the machine gun as Wally called in on the radio. There was general mayhem now, the tribesmen crying out like banshees, firing as they ran, and several bullets struck the Sultan. Sara crouched to one side in the rear seat and fired her Glock very carefully, taking her time. Frank leaned over, opened the box of RPGs, loaded up and got to work, the first grenade he fired exploding into the advancing ranks. There was a hand grenade hurled in return that fell short, exploding, and Sara was struck by shrapnel just above her left eye.

She fell back, still clutching her Glock, and fired into the face of the bearded man who rushed out of the darkness, the hollow-point cartridges blowing him back and the man behind him. There was blood in her eye, but she wiped it away with the end of her headcloth and rammed another clip into the butt of the Glock.

Wally, behind the wheel, was firing his AK over the side into the advancing ranks and suddenly cried out as a bullet caught him in the throat. Alec was standing up behind the machine gun, working it furiously from side to side, while Frank fired another grenade and then a third.

The headcloth pressed against the shrapnel wound stemmed
the blood, and Sara fired calmly, making every shot count as the Taliban rushed in out of the darkness.

Frank, standing behind her to fire another grenade, cried out, staggered, dropped the launcher, and fell back against the seat, hit in his right side. Above him, Wally was blown backward from his machine gun, vanishing over the side of the Sultan.

Sara pulled off her headcloth, explored Frank with her fingers until she found the hole in his shirt and the wound itself. She compressed her headcloth and held it firmly in place. As he opened his eyes, she reached for his hand.

His eyes flickered open, and she said, “Can you hear me?” He nodded dimly. “Press hard until help comes.”

She scrambled up behind the machine gun, gripped the handles, and started to fire in short bursts at the advancing figures. The gun faltered, the magazine box empty. There weren’t as many out there now, but they were still coming. Very slowly, and in great pain, she took off the empty cartridge box and replaced it with the spare. There was blood in her eye, and she was more tired than she had ever been in her life.

She stood there, somehow indomitable in the light of the fires, with her red hair, and the blood on her face, and glanced down at Frank.

“Are you still with me?” He nodded slightly. “Good man.”

She reached for the machine gun again and was hit somewhere in the right leg so that she had to grab the handles to keep from falling over. There was no particular pain, which was common with gunshot wounds—the pain would come later. She heaved herself up.

A final group of Taliban was moving forward, and she
started firing again, methodically sweeping away a whole line of them. Suddenly, they were all gone, fading into the darkness. She stood there, her leg starting to hurt.

There was a sound of helicopters approaching fast, the crackle of flames, the smell of battle, the cries of soldiers calling to one another as they came down the line of trucks. She was still gripping the handles of the machine gun, holding herself upright, but now she let go, wiped her bloody face with the back of her hand, and leaned down.

“It’s over, Frank. Are you all right?”

He looked up at her, still clutching her headcloth to his body. “My God, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of you, ma’am,” he croaked.

She reached down, grabbing his other hand, filled with profound relief, and then she became aware of the worst pain she had ever experienced in her life, cried out, and, at that instant, found herself back in her seat on the plane to New York.

T
he flight attendant was leaning over her anxiously. “Are you okay? You called out.”

“Fine, just fine. A bad dream. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I think I’ll go to the restroom and freshen up.”

She moved along the aisle, limping slightly, a permanent fixture now, although it didn’t bother her unless she got overtired. She stood at the mirror, ran a comb through her hair, touched up what little makeup she wore, and smiled at herself.

“No sad songs, Sara Gideon,” she said. “We’ll go now and have a delicious martini, then think about tonight’s reception at the Pierre.”

A
t Kennedy, her diplomatic status passed her straight through, and she was at the Plaza just after five o’clock. The duty manager escorted her personally to her suite.

“Would you have any news on General Ferguson’s time of arrival?” she inquired.

“Eight o’clock, but I believe that’s open, ma’am.”

“And his two associates, Mr. Dillon and Mr. Holley?”

“They booked into the hotel yesterday, but I think they’re out. I could check.”

“No, leave it. I think I’ll rest. Would you be kind enough to see that no calls are put through, unless it’s the general?”

“I’ll see to it, ma’am. Your suitcase was delivered this morning. You’ll find it in the bedroom. If you need any assistance, the housekeeper will be happy to oblige.”

He withdrew, and she didn’t bother to unpack. Instead of lying down, though, she put her laptop on the desk in the sitting room and sat there going over all the material sent to her by Major Giles Roper, whose burned and ravaged face had become as familiar to her as her own, this man who had once been one of the greatest bomb-disposal experts in the British Army, now reduced to life in a wheelchair.

It would be after eleven at night in London, but experience had taught her that if he was sleeping, it would be in his wheelchair anyway, in front of his computer bank, which was where she found him when she called him on Skype.

“Giles, I’m at the Plaza and just in from Arizona. My report on Reaper drones will curl your hair.”

“I look forward to reading it, Sara. You’re looking fit.” They’d already become good friends. “Are you likely to enjoy tonight’s little soirée?”

“There will be nothing little about it. No word from the general yet?”

“I’ve spoken to him. He and Harry Miller have met with the President and should arrive at Kennedy around eight, if the weather holds. I was going to call you anyway. Your boss, Colonel Hector Grant—boss until midnight anyway—would appreciate you being there before eight.”

“Happy to oblige him. I haven’t seen Dillon and Holley. They’re apparently out at the moment.”

“Yes, they’re seeing to something for Ferguson.”