A Knife Edge (36 page)

“We've just had the word from SOCOM—they want us to
pull our fingers out. There has been some movement at the facility. Intel is suggesting an imminent move.”

“What's the schedule?” I asked as we pushed through a door and into the sleet. I wondered how Butler had managed to keep the tips of his hair so perfectly blond.

“This way, sir,” said Butler. The two SAS men made for a nearby Land Rover. I recognized the driver—Lance Corporal Wignall. When we arrived at the vehicle, Butler said, “The schedule is that we go tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” A little fear escaped along with my words.

“Yep.”

Tomorrow night?
Jesus!
While I'd long since passed the point of no return, it still felt like I was in a car heading down a hill with the brake lines ripped out. Dortmund took my gear and threw it in the back.

“You first, Agent Cooper,” Butler said, as he opened the door for me. I climbed in and he followed. Dortmund took the seat beside Wignall. The Land Rover coughed into life and moved off slowly through the ice rink the parking lot had become. “We're ready,” Butler said, continuing where he'd left off. “We've got a good setup back at the safe house. We've got a scale model of the facility, we have the blueprints of the place, the transport squadron has given us the thumbs-up. The weather's not playing by the rules, and the report for tomorrow night looks iffy, but we knew that would always be the case at this time of the year, right?”

“ Uh-huh,” I said. The vehicle stank of diesel oil and sweat.

“We've been doing quite a bit of work with the Ski-Doos—got ‘em modified the way we want ‘em—and we've managed to pack in quite a few practice jumps with them. How about you, guv? If you don't mind me asking, when was the last time you jumped? I mean, you might have been Special Forces once, but you're a copper these days, right?”

The vehicle's windows fogged. I didn't wipe it away. There wasn't much to see—the snow shower had turned into a serious
dump, and, besides, seen one parking lot crammed with U.S. Army light infantry vehicles, seen ‘em all.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Do what?”

“Mind you asking,” I said. “But, since you've asked, don't worry about me.”
Yeah, ‘cause I'm doing enough of that for both of us. “I
jumped up and down with excitement for days when this job came up.”

Butler smiled. “Have we got issues, Special Agent? You and me?”

“That depends on whether you killed Ruben Wright,” I said.

Butler shook his head. “I wondered whether those bollocks would come up … No, actually, I was
sure
they would. I told you already—I didn't kill Sergeant Wright. Got anything else on your mind, guv?”

“Nothing that can't wait. Where are we going?”

“Safe house,” said Butler, sitting back, wiping away at his window. Apparently, a sudden desire to do some sightseeing had overcome him.

I kept my eyes on the windshield framed between Wignall's and Dortmund's ears. The snowfall had ended. Snow in Kandahar was unusual. The city was in the southern part of the country, away from the high mountains. It sat in the middle of the farming belt, where the weather was a little less malevolent. Today, the more usual browns and tans of Kandahar were hidden beneath a layer of soft whiteness. The place reminded me of a Christmas card. The image was reinforced when we turned down a narrow street and Dortmund slowed to give three Afghan men leading donkeys a little room. I wondered if they were on their way to visit a newborn king. If so, they were late: Christmas was over. Maybe they were on their way home. None of the men looked at us, though one of the animals snorted, raised its tail, and dropped a couple of pounds of crap onto the ground. Or maybe it was myrrh. The men leading the donkeys were hunched over as they kicked through the freshly fallen snow, their bodies
wrapped in tan capes and their heads wound up in light-colored turbans—protection from the elements.

Wignall accelerated through an open square. Across the far side was another Humvee. I could see American Army engineers building a snowman with a bunch of local kids. One of them pitched a snowball at an engineer. It exploded against his Kevlar. The guy returned fire. The battle escalated. Based on this evidence, I was prepared to believe we were winning at least a few hearts and minds, though the Afghans were a wily bunch, as they'd proved to every uninvited visitor since the days when an iron sword was state-of-the-art in military high-tech.

I received a thumbnail history of this country the last time I was here. It went something like this: Over the past couple of thousand years, after having a crack at it themselves, assorted kings, emperors, and generals usually put the job of subduing the Pashtun Afghans on the things-to-do list for their successors, just to give their next-in-line a lesson in humility. I'd witnessed the lesson myself on my last tour, and the fact that we were still here, years later, fighting the same people we were fighting back then, didn't bode well. And this time, the enemy had learned lessons from their buddies fighting the insurgency in Iraq. No way were they going to come and slug it out toe-to-toe with us like they did at Tora Bora. Not when it was so much fun to kill us slow. It's said the Pashtuns are only happy when they're at war. If this was true, they'd had something to keep them chuckling pretty much continuously since the time of Alexander the Great.

I wasn't too familiar with Kandahar. I'd been here before, but only in transit on the way to someplace else. The town was an important transport hub in support of our effort here, and so a lot of attention had been paid to making the place as secure as possible. Occasionally, though, shoot-and-scoot squads still sent rockets or mortar rounds in from the surrounding countryside, or an improvised explosive device blew the lid off a light armored vehicle, or charbroiled a Humvee, just to keep us on our toes.

Wignall slowed again to pass men herding a few donkeys and camels across the street and into a wide square that stank of unwashed animal and dung fires.

A few homes and business were lit by electric lights but most burned oil or kerosene or wax for light. The temperature was hovering around the freezing point and there weren't a lot of people out. I figured most were indoors, hugging their stoves.

Wignall took a sudden left turn. We dived through a small dark lane and into a largish courtyard. A tent was pitched in the corner of the open space, taking up one third of it. “Be it ever so ‘umble,” said Dortmund with a smile after the vehicle squealed to a stop.

“Billy, grab the Special Agent's kit,” ordered Butler as he got out. I did likewise.

Damian Mortensen appeared from behind the Land Rover. He gave me a nod by way of hello.

“I'll show you around,” Butler told me. “Norris is the only one of our lads not here. He's inside. The other people wandering around are CIA and NSA. They're here to make sure we've got intel hot off the sats.”

I looked for and found security cameras watching all entry points and common walls. I noted a number of claymore mines hung up high on the walls with command detonation wires taped together and snaking off toward one of the buildings. Maybe they were expecting a visit from unfriendlies—maybe from the GAO.

Knowing the CIA's paranoia, there were probably also motion sensors buried inside and out, as well as other external cameras. The devices were small, and hidden or disguised. But our enemies weren't fools. Hidden cameras or not, we'd just driven into this place in a Land Rover. We might as well have been preceded by elephants on their hind legs playing trumpets. “Safe house?” I inquired.

Butler cleared his throat and spat onto the snow. “The neighbors are all on our payroll.”

I followed the SAS men across the courtyard. Beneath a small
shelter with a corrugated-iron roof sat a couple of Honda generators, one of them purring softly. Corporal Dortmund lifted the tent flap. The floor was raised and made from interlocking metal planks. Inside, parked against the far wall, was a compact fork-lift, welding gear beside it, and a bench with a small lathe and drill press. Trooper Brent Norris was sawing the barrel off a Remington 870 pump. He looked up and gave a nod, which I returned. Painted white and strapped down onto pallets were three Ski-Doos. An M249 squad automatic weapon was mounted on the back of each. Two of the machines were equipped with trailers.

“They're getting picked up shortly,” said Butler. “Ever driven one?”

I shook my head. The only thing I'd ridden in the snow was an inner tube.

“How about a motorbike?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Same deal, only easier. Select forward, twist the throttle grip, and go,” said Butler.

Next stop was a large room with a fireplace. A gas heater filled the room with orange warmth. The walls were covered by maps, floor plans, and photos—some taken on the ground, some from altitude. The subject matter was limited to the facility. Various lines of entry and egress were drawn on the plans, then duplicated on the photos. Radio frequencies and call signs were printed on sheets of paper and hung on the wall. Set up on a large table in the center of the room was a model of the facility. The roofs of various structures within it had been removed so that the squad knew where to find stairwells and elevators.

“I'm thinking you shouldn't take part in the assault phase, Cooper. We haven't worked together and there isn't time for you to learn our tactics and methods. We wouldn't want any accidents now, would we?”

That depends who has them, I thought. I reminded myself that very few special-ops missions went like clockwork, and there was no reason to assume this one would be an exception
to that general rule—especially given the truncated planning and rushed schedule.

“We're going to leave you with a Ski-Doo and all nonessential gear half a mile from the facility, at this point here,” Butler said, landing an index finger on a cross already marked on an aerial recon photo, “and rendezvous with you once we have Warlord under control.”

“Warlord?” I asked.

“Yeah, Professor Boyle—Warlord is Washington's code name for the target. We'll go through the specifics of the op later. We've got another rehearsal planned tonight, with a follow-up in the morning.”

“ Uh-huh,” I said. Sean Boyle, Warlord? An impressive title for a murdering dweeb with stupid hair.

“C'mon, I'll show you where you can throw your kit,” said Butler. “You're sharing with one of the CIA guys.”

“That would be me.”

Another voice I recognized. I glanced at the open door where my least favorite spook was leaning on his crutches. We could crack open a case of Bud and call it a reunion.

I
didn't realize this was a physical therapy session,” I said.

“One day I'm going to fuck you right up, Cooper,” replied Bradley Chalmers.

“You two know each other?” asked Butler.

“Not in the biblical sense,” I said, “though it sounds like Chalmers is eager.”

“Part of the reason I'm here is to ensure Cooper doesn't poison this mission with his usual failure rate.”

“So, another member of your fan club?” Butler said.

I'd lost interest in sparring—Chalmers wasn't worth the breath. He and Butler could swap notes, stick pins in Vin Cooper dolls; do whatever made them happy.

“Where's my gear?” I asked.

“Let's keep moving.” Butler continued to lead the way.

I followed Butler through the rest of the building, stopping at the mess to throw down some chow. The tour came to an end in a room where Dortmund, Wignall, Mortensen, and Norris were checking and rechecking various items laid out on the floor. Butler showed me to a couple of duffel bags. A name tag on each read “Cooper.” I added my own bag to the collection. I watched as Butler opened a steel locker. He pulled out a rifle as well as webbing stuffed with magazines. “Not sure what your
preferred shooters are, but, being a septic tank an' all, I thought you'd at least be familiar with these.”

“Septic tank?” I asked.

“A Yank. Rhyming slang,” explained Dortmund.

Butler removed the magazine, pulled back the Beretta's slide, and checked the chamber. It was empty. He reinserted the magazine and handed me the weapon, butt-first. Next he picked up the rifle and went through a similar routine. I repeated the investigation of both weapons. I preferred the heavier Colt .45 to the Italian-made 92F Beretta, which since 1985 had been the pistol of choice of U.S. Armed Forces. No issues with the M4A2 carbine, however: light and idiot-proof—some would say my kind of weapon. It was, however, equipped with a thermal telescopic sight I hadn't seen or used before.

Butler told his men to go eat and they all filed out, leaving us alone. As they left, he informed me, “The ammunition for the M4 is the new Bofors armor-piercing variety. It'll punch holes in twelve-millimeter armor plate at one hundred yards, and does a good job of turning masonry into rubble at the same distance. You've got eight magazines loaded here with a tracer round three shots from empty. The scope is an ELECAN SpecterIR. It's a thermal job—be more useful and reliable than night-vision technology where we're going. It's only two times magnification, but it picks out heat sources like you wouldn't believe, especially against ice and snow. It's a great piece of kit—I'm also using one. The armorer has centered it, by the way. I know that doesn't mean much—normally you'd want to do that yourself, but there's no time left to get it done. For what it's worth, with the barrel warmed, it'll drop an inch over two hundred and fifty yards, three inches over three hundred yards, and, unless you really know how to shoot, forget about it after that. We've got a smorgasbord of antipersonnel grenades, smoke, whatever you want, and there's a box of nine-millimeter ball for the M9. I'm assuming you've brought your own handcuffs?”

I had. I examined the carbine as he spoke. It was brand-new. I said, “Did you know Ruben Wright had MS—multiple sclerosis?”
I switched on the scope and looked into the eyepiece. As we were inside in a room with no windows, there was nothing to see in the eyepiece except gray.

“Jesus, you're not still going on about Wright, are you?”