Battlecraft (2006) (12 page)

2010 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad 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.

.

2330 HOURS LOCAL

THE
fat 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.

.

GREEN EMERALD RESORT AND SPA

SINGAPORE

6 OCTOBER

1530 HOURS LOCAL

THE
Philippine 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 o
ff
icers 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."

.

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.

Then he sighted the horsemen.

Two riders were off to his left, close enough that Mike could see they were interested in him. He opened the holster flap and pulled the pistol out, sticking it in the belt. The thought flashed in his mind of saving one last bullet to put into his own brain like the British soldiers of old used to do if capture were imminent in that part of the world. A movement to his right caught his eye as another pair of riders came into view. Then a few more rode into sight. Mike knew that resistance with a pistol would be futile. The horsemen were all armed with rifles. They could leisurely pick him off without getting within range of the revolver.

Now they began to close in, and Mike put his hand on the weapon, deciding to sell his life dearly. Within ten minutes they had drawn up close to him, grinning with a menacing sort of amusement. One of them came forward.
"Chertha zey?"

"Asalam aleikum "
Mike said uttering the universal Islamic greeting.
"Arabi?
English?"

"How do you do? I am speaking
English
the
man said.

"Yes, you are," Mike said agreeably. "And very well too."

"Thank you for such kind words," the man said. "I attended a special school in Peshawar to be prepared for the diplomatic service. It is there that I learned to speak English and Urdu. I am called Sarleh Khey."

"I am called Mikael Assad."

"I have asked you
chertha zey
in my language," Khey asked. "It means where do you go."

"I am returning to friends near the coast," Mike replied. "I must confess that I am not sure of my exact location at this moment. All I know is that I am in the Northwest Frontier Province."

"It is so named by Englishmen," Khey said. "In actuality, you travel across the territory ruled by my people. We call ourselves Pashtuns, but in the West we are called Pathans."

Now Mike knew he was having an encounter with a tribe that boasted a long warrior tradition. "Since I have so impolitely intruded onto your land, I shall also refer to you as Pashtuns, if it so pleases you."

Khey laughed loudly, explaining to his friends what Mike had just said. Their former insolent grins immediately turned friendly. Khey said, "May I ask how it is that you speak English?"

"I am an American," Mike explained. "It is a long story."

Khey spoke again to his comrades, who did not mask their surprise. "We Pashtuns love long stories. Would you be so kind as to tell us yours?"

"My pleasure."

"Excellent! We invite you to come to our village as our guest. Hop up behind my saddle, Mikael."

Mike opened up his chador to reveal the pistol belt and accouterments. He smiled widely to appear as amicable as possible as he slowly and carefully pulled the weapon from the belt. He reset it into the holster and snapped the flap shut.

This made the Pashtuns laugh again and make remarks among themselves.

"My friends say you were prepared to defend yourself," Khey said. "That is most admirable. You showed no fear."

I was scared shitless
, Mike's mind spoke silently,
and that would have been bad news for you fuckers!

The Pashtun took his foot out of his left stirrup, and Mike stepped into it, swinging himself up on the horse. He settled behind his new friend as the group rode off, turning southwest.

.

1530 HOURS LOCAL

THE
Pashtun village was unnamed, but well organized, with the mud buildings laid out in a zigzag pattern to create narrow streets that would suddenly turn ninety degrees, go a short distance, then turn back in the original direction. Mike Assad had seen this arrangement before during a mission to Afghanistan. Such streets would be easy to defend while attackers, unable to see ahead any great distance, would have to slow down at each intersection where ambushes would be waiting to be sprung on them.

Mike and his escorts went to a central building that was the largest structure in the small community. It appeared primitive on the outside in spite of having glass windows. The interior, however, was much more elaborate. Thick carpeting covered the floor from wall to wall, and several tables, standing no more than eighteen inches high, were arranged in a circular pattern. A raised platform, also carpeted, was at the head of the room. The table on it was twice as long as the others. Mike figured that was where the local board of directors sat during community meetings.

He and his new friends set
tl
ed down around a table. Within moments three women appeared carrying an u
rn
of
khawa
green tea, small cups, and a platter of deep-fried vegetables called
pakoras.
Mike knew enough not to look at the women, and he kept his eyes on Khey.

"I appreciate your hospitality," he said.

"This is a strong Pashtun custom called
melmastia,"
Khey explained. "We are a people who believe in being especially courteous to our guests." He poured a cup of tea, passing it over to Mike. "Many outsiders think of us as murderous barbarians. In truth, we have a civilization unique unto ourselves."

The platter of
pakoras
was passed to Mike. Only after the guest had been served did the other men look after their own refreshments. Khey took a sip of the sweetened hot drink. "So, friend Mikael, we are most anxious to hear your story. It must be interesting because you are an Arab, yet an American too."

"I was born in America," Mike said. "My grandfather came there from Jordan. As an Arab and a follower of Islam, I felt an obligation to fight in the jihad against the West. I am a member of al-Mimkhalif. Have you heard of it?"

"Indeed," Khey said. He translated the words for his friends around the table, who nodded with approval, uttering words directed toward the American. "My countrymen wish martyrdom for you."

'Thank you," Mike said, thinking that only in Islam would someone wish death for you in such a way that you would thank him. "At any rate, I was captured by the Pakistani police during a battle." He went on to explain how he was sent to the American Embassy and escaped, then visited the mosque in Rawalpindi, where he was given help, then had to endure yet another arrest by the police during the bus trip. He told of the escape and how he stole the belt with pistol, pouches, and canteens.

Khey translated it all, and at the conclusion the Pashtuns all applauded and cheered Mike's resourcefulness. Khey clapped him on the shoulder. 'Tonight we will take you to the elders. I am sure they will help you back to al-Mimkhalif.

Now let us finish the
khawa
and
pakoras
, then you may come to my house and rest."

With the guest's story now told, the group turned their full attention to the refreshments.

.