One of the huge advantages from which the US and its allies greatly benefited was air superiority, much like the Red Army during the early years of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. The beginning of the end for the Russians in Afghanistan was the day CIA started supplying the Afghan mujahedeen with Stinger missiles. SA-24 could easily knock Apaches and Blackhawks, or C-130s full of troops, out of the sky.
Avery took some pictures, and moved over to one of the wooden crates. He used his Cold Steel Tanto to pry the lid open. He shined his light into the crate on the brand new AK-12 rifles in cellophane wrappers. Then he replaced the lid and hammered the nails back into their holes with the butt of his knife.
He moved onto the next crate and found RPG launchers.
The next crate, a smaller one, contained Czech-manufactured night vision equipment and encrypted tactical communications gear. Another crate contained Dragunov long range sniper rifles. There were a dozen more crates, plus the cargo on the other trucks, all of it factory fresh military gear.
Avery took the GPS receiver out of his pocket and dropped it into one of the crates and replaced the lid.
He gave everything a quick once-over, to make sure all of the cargo was secure and appeared untouched. Then he started for the tailgate, and froze.
Through the flaps at the end of the bed, Avery saw the Russians and Taliban returning from the operations building, some six hundred yards away. He retreated as far back on the platform as he could and squatted.
He watched the approaching entourage, the faces becoming clearer as they drew closer.
It took a few seconds for his mind to completely register what he saw. He blinked, wondering if Poacher was seeing this, then he detached the Trijicon scope from the rifle’s mounting and raised it to his eye.
Walking between Ramzin and Mullah Arzad, Robert Cramer wore a pair of faded blue jeans and an open leather jacket over a flannel shirt. He wore sunglasses. Stubble growth, which hadn’t been there in the IMU’s video less than three days earlier, shadowed his face. In fact, Cramer’s condition appeared to have miraculously improved since Avery last saw him. His lip was cut, and there was a scrape across his forehead, but he walked with his familiar air of authority, relaxed and at ease, and he did not at all resemble the beaten, broken down hostage the IMU had flaunted.
The wind picked up and caught the flap of Cramer’s jacket, blowing it back a little and exposing the chest holster and the pistol it held. Probably a Beretta, Avery thought. Cramer always favored Berettas. His head turned, and he exchanged words with the Russians.
The sight somehow didn’t surprise Avery. The only thing that surprised him was the lack of reaction he felt. Part of him wanted to give Cramer the benefit of the doubt that perhaps he was involved in some serious deep cover, black ops spook shit, or maybe running his own penetration op unilaterally, out of fear of the security breach at Dushanbe station.
But the facts and events of the last five days didn’t lie.
In Avery’s mind, the mission parameters changed completely. There wasn’t anything he could do about the Taliban or the weapons now, and he didn’t care what Culler or Langley wanted. He was going to track down Cramer, somehow, wherever he went, whatever he did, however long it took, and put a bullet in his goddamned head.
Avery shifted his scope and directed the reticule over the Russian, the one with the shaved head who bossed everyone else around. Only now, getting a close-up look at the man’s face, Avery was able to clearly make out his features.
Avery frowned.
He could have sworn that he’d just killed this fucker the previous night.
Indeed, the Russian bore an uncanny resemblance, almost identical, to the Slavic tango taken down at the IMU’s Yazgulam safe house. He had the same bone structure and face, the same cruel, brown eyes, and even the same spider tattoo emblazoned over the left side of his neck. But it wasn’t the same man. Avery could see the slightly shaded hairline around the man’s head and the bare, shiny scalp. Although sporting a shaved a head, the man in Yazgulam hadn’t been in the process of naturally balding. Plus Number Two here had a tiny scar on the right side of his forehead. He also looked a little taller. Brothers, Avery thought. They could have been twins.
Avery snapped some pictures with the camera, capturing Cramer, the Russian, and Arzad in individual shots and also wide shots showing them all together.
One of the soldiers re-appeared, jogging over to the tattooed Russian. Avery thought the soldier explained that they’d seen something odd in the field, but nobody seemed concerned about it.
Cramer shook hands with Ramzin and Arzad and then followed the tattooed Russian and his goons up the ramp into the back of the Antonov with the flight crew. A few minutes later the ramp lifted, sealing them inside, while the Taliban headed for their trucks.
Avery tensed and watched as one Afghan walked directly his way, his eyes looking into the darkness of the cargo hold. The Afghan stepped right up to the back of the truck and slammed the tailgate shut. He tugged on it once to make sure it was secure, then he turned and walked around the truck, and Avery heard the driver side door creak open and close.
Seconds later, the V-8 engine started up, and the truck jerked into motion and fell into line behind the others. The trucks drove off the tarmac and headed for the winding road cutting through the forest onto the highway.
Avery moved to the tailgate and looked out past the canvas flaps at the tall trees and the patch of road highlighted by the truck’s taillights. He estimated they were doing maybe twenty miles per hour. About two miles away now, he heard the sound of jet engines powering up and carrying the big Antonov transporter down the runway.
Avery secured his rifle to his vest, stepped over the tailgate, and jumped. Smacking against the pavement, he tucked and rolled, hoping the driver didn’t him in his mirrors for the second he was exposed in the glow of the taillights, before the darkness enveloped and concealed him. The truck continued down the road, staying with the convoy, while Avery got up and ran for the safety and cover of the forest.
Overhead, there were blinking lights in the sky and the clamor of jet engines as the Antonov ascended into the night.
FOURTEEN
They returned to the safe house at 2:45AM. Avery had made his exfil through the forest without incident, and later linked up with Reaper on the highway. On the drive back, they’d discussed the recon, but nobody felt comfortable commenting on the nature of Cramer’s appearance, especially not Poacher. Of the group, he was the only one other than Avery to have personally known and worked with Cramer. Cramer was the one who had pulled strings and got Poacher into the Agency. Avery knew how to read Poacher, and the ex-army NCO’s sullen expression and silence hinted at the disillusionment and betrayal he felt.
Avery supposed that he should have experienced something similar. But he didn’t and was glad for it. That type of clouded thinking would only impair his judgment. He only felt resentment and anger. And a new overwhelming sense of purpose. He felt driven now, like he was whenever he was on the trail of a high value target in Afghanistan or Iraq. It made little difference that this HVT was an American, someone he’d once fought beside. Avery didn’t do sentimentality. Maybe later, after this was over, but until then, this was just another job, Cramer another enemy that needed to be put down.
Upon reaching the safe house, Avery’s first course of action was to use Sideshow’s encrypted satellite phone to place a call to the secure cell that Matt Culler always carried and left turned on 24/7 at home or work. CIA employees are prohibited from brining cell phones into headquarters, but unofficial exceptions are made for certain senior personnel.