Chapter Seventy-Seven
Shangri-la
The tool shed was a blast-furnace and Camille was breathing hard. The shed was single-wall construction-thick plywood on a frame of scrap lumber. She was confident that she could kick through the walls and felt a little insulted that they thought so little of a female prisoner that they would stick her in such a minimum security shack. Light came in through a knot in one of the boards and she used it to search the ground for anything that she could use as a weapon. It wasn’t likely, but they might have missed something when hastily clearing it for use as makeshift guest quarters.
The call to prayer sounded tinny. She laughed that even al Qaeda used canned calls to prayer over loudspeakers and didn’t even bother with a real live muezzin. It was the second one that she’d heard since her arrival and it was still daylight out so it had to be late afternoon. She couldn’t wait for the sun to go down, she thought, as she ran her fingers through the sandy floor, systematically searching for a tool. About a half inch below the loose top layer, the sand was as hard as concrete. Sand and dirt were wedged under her fingernails and she reeked of sweat, which wasn’t strong enough to mask the smell of Pete’s blood.
Her finger hit something sharp. A nail. Her spirits soared when she realized it was between four and five inches long. Finally, she had something serious to work with. In case they searched her quarters, she reburied it and then continued her treasure hunt, raking her fingers through the sand, wondering where Hunter was and trying to convince herself that he had gotten safely far away.
If she only could’ve seen him, smelled him, tasted him one last time. They had been within a few feet of each other when the airplane had zoomed over her and now she’d never see him again. She tried to come up with rescue scenarios, but she didn’t want to deceive herself into false hopes that could distract her from what she had to do.
She was confident she could break out of the shack at night, but she doubted she could survive the desert if she ever made it out of the camp. It was a moot point anyway. As soon as she saw the head of one of the two al Qaeda factions, she knew she had to do whatever it took to assassinate him. Taking him out would be a blow the terrorist organization might never recover from, particularly now that it seemed to be splintering in a bitter succession struggle. It didn’t know it, but al Qaeda had brought a suicide bomber into its midst. All she needed now was a bomb.
“Marhaba,” a voice said as someone fumbled with the padlock on the shed door.
She immediately sat down and leaned against the wall and drew her legs up close to her body. It was time to paint the picture of a compliant, fearful female. The Muslim fundamentalists had such a low opinion of women, she was determined to give them what they wanted.
Fresh air rushed inside as the door opened.
“Stay against back wall, please,” a young man said in heavily accented English as he set a large bucket full of water inside the shed. A guard stood outside the door with an AK pointing in at her.
“Don’t hurt me,” Camille said, making her voice crack as if she had been crying.
“Water to clean. Prepare yourself.” He tossed Camille a light gray jilbab and a head scarf.
“Prepare myself for what?”
“Tonight-marriage. The mut’a, insh’allah.”
Camille wanted to laugh and toss the clothes back into his face, but instead she said, “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Tonight, you marry or you die.”
“No!” She pretended to cry and raised her bound wrists in front of her face and put her hands together as if praying. “I don’t want to die. Help me, please.”
He looked away.
“Who is the groom?” Camille said.
“Al-Zahrani, may peace and blessings of Allah be upon him,” the messenger said as he closed the door.
“And may al-Zahrani fuck off and die,” Camille whispered as she got back on her hands and knees and continued her search for more nails.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
39° 45' 10.02 N, 65° 09' 15.12 E (Uzbekistan)
Three hours into the operation, Hunter was still awake, unable to snooze like he usually did during insertions, and his body had grown stiff and achy. The seats were nylon stretched over an aluminum frame and they were only marginally better than the alternative, which was the metal floor. More than once he’d sat on the floor for entire missions when the seats had been removed so more troops could be crammed inside. Usually the troop doors of the helicopter were also removed for easy access, but given the sandstorm that they had already gone through, he was happy Iggy had decided against it, probably to reduce drag and conserve fuel. Hunter stretched as much as he could, but with Iggy and GENGHIS sandwiching him, he could move only enough to keep some circulation going in his lymph systems so his muscles didn’t get worse. At least his legs had room to stretch out toward the pilots.
The only light in the Pave Hawk was the glow from the partial glass cockpit. Hunter watched the line of the color weather radar sweep the area, then glanced over to the Doppler navigation system and the LCD map of their location. The Pave Hawk was an older model that seemed to have been retrofitted with the latest in glass cockpit avionics.
An orange light to the left of the pilot flickered, indicating a warning light had gone off. Hunter turned his head to read the caution message on the middle display, but before he could see what the problem was about, it went off. He prayed it was an anomaly. They were pushing the equipment to its limits because Stella couldn’t wait. Right after the sandstorm one of the Cobras had had to turn back because of fluctuating turbine gas tempature. They didn’t need any more problems that might force them back. Iggy had established liberal go/no parameters of one Hawk and one Cobra, but Hunter had his own: as long as one bird would stay in the air long enough to get him within walking distance, it was a green light. Hell, as long as he was still breathing, it was a go.
Beach Dog’s ass was numb and his mind wasn’t far behind. Extended range missions had a way of grinding him down with boredom. Top Guns who retired to long hauls in civilian aircraft must go out of their minds, he thought as he relieved himself in his pee bag.
As usual with a black mission, radio contact was minimal. Today the Pave Hawks were using the calls signs JACKAL ONE and TWO and the remaining Super Cobra was DRAGON ONE. He laughed when he heard that the MC-130’s designation was COWBIRD. Those gas station attendants either had a self-image problem or they didn’t get what the game was all about.
Finally they were approaching the point STARLIGHT and some action. He knew it was too early to start searching for the tanker, but he couldn’t help but watch the radar screen as if it were a video game. Any minute the race with his wingman would begin to see who would be the first one to make radar contact with the tanker.
The radar swept around and around on the screen. He saw a blip, then it faded. A few sweeps later, it reappeared. He was trying to get a fix on it when he heard the voice of the second Pave Hawk’s pilot. “JACKAL TWO, contact five right for forty, beaming south at 120 knots.”
“Damn,” Beach Dog whispered to himself. The first round of drinks after the mission was completed was now on him. He confirmed that the MC-130 was five degrees to their right at a range of forty nautical miles. “Contact,” Beach Dog said over the radio.