BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (31 page)

“There’s nothing outstanding about the village,” Cal said. “It’s old, not very sophisticated, and there are maybe thirty or forty people living there. Troops from the 101
^st
Airborne visited and never found anything out of the ordinary. The village is ancient and was obviously built here with defense in mind. The sheer cliff on the other side of the mountain can’t be climbed. That meant that marauding tribes could only approach up the easily defended narrow ravine. Sort of like the Afghan version of Butch Cassidy’s Hole in the Wall.”    

Jake studied the photo.
Battista’s village—where it all started.

Ahmed stepped up beside him, staring at the screen. “That’s my home.”

Jake placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Can you show us where the entrances are to the two caverns?”

Ahmed stood on his tiptoes as he tried to reach the spot with his pointed finger. When it was obvious he couldn’t reach, Lacey handed him an eighteen-inch ruler to use as a pointer. Appearing not the least bit intimidated in the midst of the gruff team, he used the pointer like a professor at a lecture. “If you follow this walking trail north out of the village, the first cavern lies just after the third twist. Right here.” 

He pointed to a spot that was unremarkable from the rest of the terrain. “The entrance is about five meters above the trail, hidden above a big rock. So it is not visible unless you leave the trail and climb through this crack.”

“And this is the main barracks and living quarters?” Jake asked.

“Yes.”

“How many live there?”

“It changes. But usually there are between one and two hundred soldiers.”

The team stirred at the number and edged up to get a closer look at the screen.

“And the second cavern?” Jake asked.

Ahmed traced the winding line further north up the mountain. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. To here, where the path opens up before a final run to the cliff.” Ahmed pointed to a canyon with a relatively flat clearing about the size of a large soccer field. It was surrounded by steep, dun-colored ridges that towered over it.

“The entrance is here.” He pointed to a spot beneath the eastern wall of the canyon. “It’s always guarded.”

Jake moved closer and studied the screen, focusing on the first cavern that served as barracks. “Ahmed, are you absolutely certain that there is only one entrance or exit from this first cavern?”

Ahmed nodded.

Everyone’s attention was yanked away by a high-pitched buzzing sound that echoed from the entrance of the hangar.

Like synchronized dragonflies, two miniature black helicopters, each about the size of a grocery cart, hovered in perfect tandem formation just inside the hangar door. In place of the normal bubble cockpit found in manned helicopters, these remote-control gunships sported serious looking AA-12 shotgun muzzles and miniature four-slot rocket pods. Spherical camera housings protruded from underneath the weapons.

Kenny sat at a small table he had set up just outside. He had a wireless joystick in his right hand that was held in place by a rigid brace-and-strap assembly looped around his forearm. A ruggedized extra-wide laptop sat open on the table. 

Like a teenager playing a video game, Kenny was totally engrossed on the screen as he moved the joystick. The copters flew a gentle circle inside the perimeter of the hangar. As they turned back toward the doorway, they picked up speed and, once outside, shot up and out of view like sparks over a blazing fire. By the time everyone hurried outside to watch the show, both birds had disappeared.

Kenny tapped a key and withdrew his attention from the screen. “Portable air support,” he said with a grin. “NRI AutoCopter gunships. They can engage at 60 mph with standard shotgun ammo or FRAG-12 grenade rounds at three hundred rounds per minute. And the mini-rocket pods can be equipped with a full variety of munitions, from incendiary to armor piercing.”

“Where the
bloomin’ ’ell
are they?” Becker asked.

Kenny turned back to the screen. “Ready or not, here they come.”

The two copters screamed around the far corner of the hangar like stock cars on the final turn at Indianapolis. They nosed up abruptly, hovering with a menacing stillness, their weapons trained on the group.

The laptop’s split screen filled with mirror images of the team from the point of view of the copters’ high-definition cameras.

Kenny tapped another key and moved the joystick. One of the copters peeled away in a quick circle before returning to hover next to the other. “They can be operated independently with separate joysticks. Or up to four can be operated simultaneously in tandem mode.”

Both copters moved in unison in a hovering turn around them, their gunsights never wavering. “When these babies are in search-and-destroy mode, there’s no hiding from them.”

Ripper snickered. He made a pistol out of his forefinger and thumb and took a mock potshot at the two birds. “Sure,
holmes
. Until somebody pops ’em with a cap pistol.”

Kenny smiled and said. “It looks like I’ve got my volunteer for the demo.” He pointed to Ripper’s still extended finger. “Why don’t you take that big gun of yours out to that trash barrel I set up over there and see if you can draw a bead on these babies.”

Ripper’s grin faded, but he said, “
No
problema
. I’ll be right back.” He jogged into the hangar and returned with his Grendel assault rifle. With a cocky grin, he winked at his buddies and jogged out to the field. When he was next to the garbage can—about fifty yards out—he waved his rifle.

Kenny entered a short series of commands. Jake noticed that the screen image changed to a very high overhead view of the field, but both copters were still hovering in front of him.

Noticing Jake’s confusion, Kenny pointed to a small spec circling high overhead. “The Raven portable surveillance drone. I launched it before the copters. It can stay up for ninety minutes to feed us battlefield sit-reps.  The copters’ targeting computer uses real-time data from the drone. And all the imagery is integrated with the team’s sensor set, available through their helmet-mounted heads-up displays.”

The specialized helmets and other equipment of the Land Warrior system had arrived earlier in the day. Each team member would be equipped with a sensor set, comprised of a helmet that integrated a communications network with day and night cameras and weapon-mounted sight cameras. The images would be displayed on a half-inch transparent monocular display.      Everybody on the team could get a visual from any other team member’s cameras, or from the drone or copters.

Kenny pointed to the corner of the table at a couple of flexible wrist displays. “These are also tied into the system, for the two going in without helmets.”

Most of the team nodded in understanding. They’d used the devices before and appreciated the value they would add in coordinating the actions of the team. 

Jake liked Kenny more every minute.

The screen image from the drone zoomed in on Ripper and the empty trash barrel. Kenny typed in a command and sat back from the keyboard. “Look, Ma. No hands.” He pointed to the field and said, “Watch this.”

Both copters spun on their axes. Like angry wasps, they shot away in different directions, disappearing around the hangar.

Ripper stood ready, his assault rifle pressed into his shoulder, waiting for the birds to appear. He never had a chance. With the high sun at their backs, the two birds dropped from above like falcons on a mouse.

Too late, Ripper pulled his rifle upward toward the sound of their approach, but before he steadied his aim, the copters had already split apart and swarmed around him in a haphazard pattern that looked like insects buzzing around a bare lightbulb on a hot summer night. Ripper’s rifle jerked from one position to another as he tried to track the birds. But after several seconds, he lowered his weapon and walked back to the group.

“Not bad,
gringo
. Not bad at all,” Ripper said. “I might have nailed one of those loco birds on a strafe, but they were all over me, man.”

The copters returned to their starting point hovering near the group.

Kenny flipped up a red panel that covered a section of the keyboard. He tapped a key and a warning flashed at the top of the screen—
Confirm Weapons Hot
. He hit the key a second time—
Weapons Hot!

“Okay, boys…” He remembered Lacey and Maria. “…and girls. The grand finale.” He tapped a final key.

The birds took off and flew the same pattern as before. Except this time after they split apart and started their diving buzz run, there was a two-second staccato burst from their AA-12s.

The garbage can was shredded to bits in a cloud of dust.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Papa said.

A black Mercedes with dark-tinted windows raced toward them across the tarmac. It screeched to a halt near the group. The prince and another man got out and walked over to Jake. They were both dressed in white
dishdashahs
with
keffiyehs
on their heads.

After the traditional Muslim greeting, the prince said in Dari, “You Americans and your toys. Quite impressive.”

Jake grinned and surprised the prince with a warm hug. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate this, Phillip. I’ll never forget your help.”

The prince was flustered a bit by Jake’s embrace, but he couldn’t hide the smile behind his feigned indignation. He gestured to the man next to him. “This is the man I told you about. His name is Azim.”

Jake shook hands with the man, sizing him up. The grip was firm. Jake stayed with Dari. “The prince told you of our mission?”

Azim nodded. He was older than Jake, although it was difficult to tell for sure behind his full black beard. His dark skin was weathered and there was an aura of sadness about him, the kind of emptiness that you see when a person loses someone very dear. But like a bullfighter stoically awaiting the charging bull, there was also a fierce determination in his dark penetrating eyes, as if nothing would stand in his way. He studied Jake’s mannerisms.

“I understand that you’re familiar with the village,” Jake said.

“Yes.” Azim scratched his beard. “Your dialect is quite good, but there are some nuances I must teach you if you expect to successfully infiltrate the tribe.” 

Azim paused as if trying to decide how much to share with Jake. After an uncomfortably long moment, he said, “I am
mujahedin
. I come from a family of nomads with a tradition of fighting to protect our way of life. When I was younger, we fought the Russians. Now we fight our own radical countrymen. The man you know as Luciano Battista is actually Abdul Modham Abdali, descended of the tribe that has inhabited the village for hundreds of years.”

Azim paused, his gaze locked on Jake as he told his story.

“My tribe traded often with his village. Two years ago, my brother and cousin were lured to join Battista’s
jihad
. They went to live in the secret caves above the village with many others. Six months later, they were both found dead, victims of gruesome experiments. They each had surgical scars on their heads. When our leader confronted Battista, most of our tribe was massacred. By the will of Allah, may peace be upon him, my cousin and I were away when it happened. When we returned, it took us two days to bury all of our dead.”

Jake sensed the truth of the man’s words. He felt his pain.

“Battista and his tribe cannot be allowed to live,” Azim said. “I will help you, and you will help me.”

Jake nodded, feeling a kinship with the man born out of their shared desperate goal. “Welcome, Azim. Let’s get you introduced to the rest of the team.”

Tony handled the introductions. Jake checked his watch. It was noon. They had a ten-hour flight in front of them and they needed to be in position on the mountain by 3:00 p.m. It was time to load up.

 Jake bade a quick farewell to the prince, and then looked over the unlikely mix of people that made up his team—two pilots, each a little nuts in his own unique way; the tough L.A. boys; an Australian trapper; two Navy SEALs; a Chechen rebel; his two best friends in the world; an actress/waitress; and finally, a
mujahedin
warrior on his own personal
jihad
. And, of course, Ahmed.

Together this group would determine the outcome of the most critical eighteen hours of Jake’s life. No, it was more than that, he thought. Much more. Their actions would determine the fate of an untold number of innocent lives, starting with Francesca and Sarafina, and ending with thousands—if not tens of thousands—of innocent victims whose lives would be lost if Battista’s plans came to fruition.

Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan

H
undreds of years of human misery and abuse hung heavy in the air.

The walking path through the natural cavern narrowed to a slender six-foot-wide tunnel as it wound its way through the moist depths of the mountain two levels below Battista’s headquarters. The rock floor was uneven. The broken, jagged walls cast dark shadows in the dim light from a string of bare bulbs that disappeared in the distance around the corner. The low ceiling was scorched to a deep charcoal, remnants of a time when torches provided the only light. The still, moist air smelled of urine and feces.