Combat Alley (2007) (30 page)

Bloody right, Bariyan said. That's the advantage of being in bed with the bastards, hey?

Too bad about his driver though, Abiska remarked. I guess we'll have to chalk him up as collateral damage. He's not going to get much protection in that car. You had the correct information on the vehicle, right?

Believe it or not, it's one he's been using for the past eighteen months, Bariyan remarked. It's not armored. Not even bulletproof glass.

I would wager that you even know the license number.

Sure. Would you care for me to recite it?

Abiska laughed, then they fell into silence, relaxed but alert. Abiska had his favorite Beretta 9-millimeter automatic with him, while Bariyan was more formidably armed. His weapon for the evening's activities was a Steyr AUG assault rifle configured as a carbine. The magazine was filled with forty-two 5.56-millimeter armor-piercing rounds.

A couple of minutes eased by, then the sound of an approaching vehicle could be discerned, rapidly growing louder. This pleased the two CIA men. The faster it passed over the spikes, the quicker it would come to a nearly uncontrollable stop.

A series of pops, muffled by the sound of the car's engine, was followed by the flapping of shredded rubber. The auto swerved wildly past, and Abiska gunned the engine to rush out of the grove onto the road. He headed straight for the target that was now moving at somewhere around fortyfive kilometers an hour. He easily caught up with it, moving to the left and pulling up even. The two men inside had expressions of helpless fright on their faces that showed in the dial lights of the vehicle.

Bariyan pointed the assault rifle at the driver's window and pulled the trigger. The weapon's selector was on full automatic and half the magazine's capacity was emptied, the rounds crashing through the glass to pulverize the man's body. The car swung to one side, then stopped as the engine quit.

Now Abiska hit the brakes, and Bariyan was out on the road, rushing to the car. Debandi! he yelled in Pashto. The man inside made no moves, so Bariyan reached through the shattered window and hit the button to pop the locks. He pulled the rear door opened, once more commanding, Debandi!

The man inside slowly and fearfully emerged, his hands in the air. Now Bariyan grabbed him, frog marching the guy to the other vehicle. The prisoner protested, You must have the wrong man! I have friends in the Taliban! Bariyan made no reply as they both got in the back. Then Abiska once more hit the accelerator, driving away from the scene of the kidnapping.

Zaid Aburrani was in custody.

.

SEALs BIVOUAC

0900 HOURS

THE C-130 was expected due to a radio alert transmitted to the Brigands from Shelor Field Operations. There had been no request for resupply, but it wasn't unusual for unexpected materiel or personnel to be dispatched into a situation that had strong probabilities of combat operations. It could be extra ammunition, chow, reinforcements, or even Commanders Tom Carey and Ernest Berringer coming in with some additional information or perhaps a briefing for a new operation.

When the distant drone of the four T56 turboprop engines could be picked up by the Brigands' dirty ears, all activity came to a halt. The arrival of a plane always meant there would be some tasks to attend to, and was a welcome break in the routine of the camp. Even the horses on the picket lines turned their heads toward the sound. The animals were well tuned in on the happenings and habits of their human companions, and knew the arrival of one of the noisy flying machines caused great excitement. Puglisi's Ralph snorted and stomped his hooves a bit, nervous about the airplane. He was not fond of flying.

The approaching aircraft was a black dot in the sky, closing in fast as the apparition morphed into that of a proper aircraft with wings. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had walked from the hootches out to the edge of the LZ to wait for the landing. It was cold and both men huddled into their parkas as they silently observed the visitor drawing closer.

What the hell? Brannigan exclaimed. He reached for the leather case on his pistol belt and withdrew the binoculars. He focused in on the aircraft, saying, That's not military.

Dawkins snorted a chuckle. What is it? United Airlines?

Take a look, Senior Chief, the Skipper said, handing over the field glasses.

Dawkins studied the sight, then said. The damn thing is white. I think... Yeah! I can see the letters now. It's a UN aircraft.

Oh, brother! Brannigan said. What in the hell do they want?

I can't figure that out, sir, Dawkins said. If they're thinking on working with the Pashtuns, they're gonna be shit out of luck. I'll bet they ain't got permission to come here. He was thoughtful for a moment. Wait a minute! Gomez said they had clearance from Shelor Field Operations. How can that be?

I'll tell you how, Brannigan said. This operation is classified. There's no way they can be kept out without tipping our hands.

Now the aforementioned Petty Officer Frank Gomez trotted up with a page ripped from his message pad. He handed it to Brannigan. I just got this, sir. The commo center at Shelor ain't prioritizing their transmissions right today.

Brannigan quickly scanned the missive. It's a good thing we got this, even if it was out of sequence. It tells me a UN mission is coming in and we are to keep them close to us and not allow contact with the Pashtuns. We're to tell them there's a blood feud going on and it's too dangerous right now. They are definitely not to go roaming around the Pranistay Steppes. He turned to the RTO. Gomez, you go to each section commander and team leader. Give them that cover story and have 'em pass the word to their men ASAP. You tell Doc Bradley yourself.

Aye, sir!

At the moment Gomez ran off, the big UN plane touched down, its engine reversed as the pilot stood on the brakes to bring it to a halt. Rather than shut down one engine for unloading like most military planes, both power plants were cut, creating a dead silence over the area that had been engulfed by the roars of the turboprop quartet. The rear ramp immediately whined and began to lower. When it hit the ground, a familiar figure appeared. Dr. Pierre Couchier, the Belgian chief surgeon and head of the mission, looked out, then spotted Brannigan and Dawkins. He actually smiled, leaping off the ramp and walking rapidly over to the two SEALs with his hand outstretched.

Brannigan shook with him. I'm glad to see you're not still angry with me, Dr. Couchier.

Ah! Couchier exclaimed. Mon cher lieutenant vaisseau, I realize how unfair I was to hold you in total blame for the complete and utter destruction of my camp near the Iranian border. It was an honest mistake on your part.

Brannigan growled in his throat. If you recall, Doctor, it turned out that the number of enemy were three times what you told me they were. That caused me to make a tactical error in my defenses.

We are even, Monsieur le Lieutenant Brannigan, Couchier insisted. I made a mistake in counting and you made one in your tactics, no?

No! Goddamn it! No!

Mmf! Couchier said with a frown. Well, laisse tomber! He looked around. Where is the best place for me to go to set up my operations, eh?

Your best place is right here, Brannigan said sternly. It is very dangerous out on the Pranistay Steppes.

Mmf! the Belgian said again. I am not afraid of things dangereux! Nor are any of my people. We have a job to do and we will do it, comprendez?

There is a clan feud going on out there, Brannigan said. I am working hard to bring peace to the area. Until I do, you will have to set up your operations right here.

I insist in going wherever I might better serve the people who dwell on the steppes.

Brannigan gave the doctor a no-nonsense glare that spoke like thunder in the sky in spite of the silence.

Couchier shrugged. Ah! Tr+?s bien, monsieur le lieutenant. He pointed over to an open, flat area. L+ there?

That would be fine, Doctor, Brannigan said.

At that same instant, three females came out of the plane. The SEALs knew them from previous visits to the mission. They waved and hollered at the attractive young women. Irena Poczinska, a Polish X-ray technician; Josefina Vargas, an RN from Spain; and the German dietician, Ericka M++nchen, smiled back at the enthusiastic greetings. There was sensual quality about the women despite the rather baggy white coveralls they wore, and now their smiles turned to delighted laughter as they began to remember and recognize familiar faces among the Brigands.

The trio of females, like Dr. Couchier and the rest of the mission, were members of the United Nations Relief and Education Organization, or UNREO. They were part of a group of people that lived the real meaning of the United Nations. Dr. Couchier and his crew were not to be numbered among the embezzling, dishonest executives, the hypocritical senior ambassadors from nations led by despots, nor the Americanbaiting Third World cretins of the general assembly of that organization.

The UNREO mission, so splintered off from the main organization that no one was sure who they really belonged to, were the frontline soldiers of true humanity. They served in hellholes full of danger, deprivation, sickness, poverty, and hopelessness. Those people, like the three young women exchanging greetings with the SEALs, truly wanted to help humankind, and did so with shortages of funds while enduring harassment from criminal elements that were most times under the sponsorship of the national governments where the work was being done.

Couchier, knowing he would get nowhere arguing with the local military authority, left Brannigan to get his people to work unloading the plane. A good number of enthusiastic off-duty Brigands joined them in the job.

Chapter 22

STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN

BARRI PRISON

ISOLATION CELL

1 DECEMBER

1000 HOURS

THE conscious mind of Zaid Aburrani reeled in terror, the awful fear making his body shake as much as did the coldness of his steel surroundings. The utterly frightened man was clothed only in his undershirt, boxer shorts, and socks as he sat in darkness so complete the only thing he could see were floaters dancing around in front of his eyes. The man pressed up against a wall in an instinctive protective posture to draw away from the source of whatever danger he faced. The prisoner wasn't sure where he was, not even the location of the entrance to the mysterious chamber he had been cast into. If he had to guess, Aburrani would say it was a metal box. He was too frightened to move enough to pace the interior to determine the length and width, or reach upward in an attempt to find the height.

His mind had been clouded for an undeterminable amount of time, but seemed to be recovering from the confusion. His thoughts abruptly turned away from his present predicament to the incident that had led to his incarceration. It was a sudden remembrance that erupted through his mental turmoil, bringing back the sharp sounds and images of the strange car pulling alongside his own fishtailing vehicle, then the eruption of shooting, the cracking and breaking of the glass, and the driver's head exploding as he was flung across the front seat. Only the safety belt saved the poor man from being slammed against the opposite door.

Aburrani's mental state began to settle a bit now, and it was strange that he would impulsively recall the chauffeur that night was not his regular man. This was the brother of Kaid, who usually drove him; the brother had taken his place because Kaid wished to attend a program at his youngest son's school. The boy was going to play a piece on the piano. It suddenly occurred to Aburrani that Kaid's conscience would nag at him for the rest of his life because his brother had died in his place.

What tragic irony.

But irony is not supposed to be tragic, Aburrani thought. Irony can be amusing, frustrating, or even contemptible if it smacks of stupidity or ignorance. But it should never be tragic. The word unfortunate would normally fit in those circumstances, but this had been an undeniable tragedy.

A close association with violence was not a part of Abur-rani's existence. He had read about it and heard about it, but he had never actually witnessed violence in his life. He had seen the result of it, of course; what person in Afghanistan had not? Dead and mangled corpses or maimed living people were common sights following bombing incidents, but he always felt distanced from such misfortunes as if he weren't at all concerned. No matter the bloodshed or suffering of the victims, he moved on through his life disconnected and remote from brutal behavior.

But now he had an intimate relationship with carnage after the ambush of his automobile. In a few stunning seconds he had been hurled into that abyss of violence that he had managed to avoid for so many years. As his mind continued clearing, he became aware of a slight discomfort in his right deltoid muscle. It was a sensation not unlike that experienced after getting a vaccination. He rubbed a hand over the sore spot on his shoulder. It was a sure sign he had been drugged sometime in the mishmash of confusion.