Bashir grinned widely. "Shokhran! Thank you! Goodbye! Good-bye!"
Brannigan led the SEALs off the dhow, then went into the office as the dhow's crew threw the lines back to Atwill.
"Okay, Watkins. Set a course for the Dan Daly. We've actually accomplished something today."
Veronica Rivers looked at him. "Really? Were they carrying contraband?"
"Not a single piece, Lieutenant," Brannigan said. "But what we got was much more important. We picked up enough information to confirm some very valuable intelligence."
'The course to the Dan Daly is one-eight-seven, sir," Watkins reported.
"Go to one-eight-seven then," Brannigan said.
"Course one-eight-seven, aye, sir!" Watkins responded.
The Battlecraft kicked up its speed to two-thirds, heading homeward at a steady sixty-one miles per hour.
.
RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN
THE people of Pakistan speak two dozen languages that are further divided into three hundred dialects. Unfortunately for Mike Assad, he didn't have as much as a working knowledge of any of them. The situation put him at a serious disadvantage as he moved deeper into the country. English is used in the government and the upper reaches of the nation's society, but the SEAL was deeply imbedded in the midst of lower social types, moving among them in an unavoidably conspicuous manner.
And he was still lost.
He could not find his way out of the city and was unable to ask directions. All attempts on his part to address anyone were met with scowls and insulting gestures that he figured either meant to move along or to go fuck a she-goat. A half-dozen instances occurred when he found himself face-to-face with one of the local toughs, unable to respond appropriately to a rough street inquisition. Most of the time he managed to stare them down, but on one occasion the guy pulled a knife and waved it menacingly at him with an evil grin while onlookers ceased their normal activities to urge the local hero on. Mike sneered back, knowing that if he showed any fear at all he was a dead man since others in the crowd would want a piece of him too. He pulled the knife he'd gotten in the fight, and the potential assailant noted that his own weapon was smaller than Mike's. He backed off with a scowl, then made a quick turn and hurried away. When Mike glared at the spectators in a challenging manner, they suddenly discovered they had other things to do.
An hour later, however, the odds caught up with him, and Mike was in a situation where it looked like escape would be impossible. At least two dozen merchants and shoppers in one market place objected to his passing through their neighborhood, and an impromptu mob situation quickly developed. They advanced in a disorganized phalanx, encouraging each other through sheer weight of numbers while shouting insults and threats. Once more Mike went to the knife as he backed down the street. Several times one of them would prove to be a bit braver than the others, and move toward him. In those instances, he had little choice. If he was going to die, Mike was determined that he sure as hell was going to take a few with him, and he made ready to fight with no intention of begging for quarter or giving any. He stopped in his tracks, assumed an aggressive fighting position, then lunged forward, bringing his knife to bear. These counterattacks caused the bolder individuals' courage to fail as they stumbled back to the safety of their buddies. This gave Mike a chance to put a bit more distance between him and the crowd, albeit by walking backward. Eventually, the throng's numbers began to lessen, and the threat slowly subsided as he moved out of their turf.
At that point, Mike was close to abandoning his mission, finding a taxi, and going back to the American Embassy in Islamabad. A reunion with Brannigan's Brigands never seemed so good.
.
1100 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad wasn't hungry enough to consider the situation critical, but he knew that in another twenty-four hours, he would begin to experience a physical weakness and fatigue that would get worse before it got better if he didn't take in any nutrition.
He reached what seemed to be an active thoroughfare with both motorized and animal-drawn vehicular activity. He walked to an intersection that showed some promise. There were street signs in both English and Urdu that identified the site as the meeting of Adamjee and Kashmir Roads. Mike glanced down the street and sighted a mosque. He hurried toward it and entered through the gate, exploring the interior until he came to the rassal area. This was where the faithful washed before going into prayers. He went over to a bench and sat down. Here was a chance to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
"Asalam aleikum "
The voice startled him, and Mike leaped to his feet and turned around. A young cleric with a pleasant smile regarded him in a friendly manner. Mike nodded and replied, "Wa aleikum salam," as he had been taught in the al-Mimkhalif camp. "Arabi? English?" he asked.
"I speak English," the cleric said. "I am called Zaid."
"I am called Mikael."
"So your father named you after the archangel, did he?" the cleric asked. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mikael? You seem to be distressed."
"I seek amniyi," Mike said, asking for sanctuary.
"From whom do you flee, Mikael?"
"I am an Arab-American," he explained, knowing that he had no choice but to turn to his cover story and hope for the best. "I have escaped from captivity in the American Embassy." He pulled back his sleeve and revealed the handcuff locked around his left wrist.
'This is extraordinary;' Zaid the cleric said. "How did such an unusual event come about?"
"I left America to return to the lands and faith of my forefathers to offer up my life in a jihad," Mike said. "I am a mujahideen and fight with al-Mimkhalif. I was captured during an attack on a Pakistani police post. When they discovered I was an American, they sent for people from the United States Embassy to take me back to America for punishment. But I escaped and I am now lost."
"So you are in peril from infidels, la, Brother Mikael? In that case we will help you. What is it that you wish?"
"I desire to return to al-Mimkhalif to fight again," Mike said. "My band is in the mountains of Baluchistan Province." He shrugged apologetically. "And I am very hungry."
"Come with me," Zaid the cleric said. "We will give you food, and I shall send for a hiddad--a blacksmith--to remove the restraint from your wrist."
"Allah will reward you for your kindness," Mike replied properly.
He was taken into the interior of the mosque, where other clerics came to meet him. Zaid left to send for the blacksmith, and Mike was invited by the others to sit at a table where he was served with gosht and ghobi. This combination of mutton and cabbage took the wrinkles out of his stomach. He ate three large helpings, washing it all down with a milky tea called dudh cha. He had learned during his SERE training that if you are in a situation requiring long hours of tough physical exertion, you should eat and drink as much as you can to build strength for the ordeal ahead. Mike Assad followed that dictum to the letter.
By the time his appetite was appeased, a blacksmith with hammer, chisel, and hacksaw was brought in. It took the man only ten minutes to free him from the handcuffs. The smithy gathered up his tools and departed without a word, passing Zaid, who entered the room with an envelope.