Gil smiled.
He found a pistol in the case and was pleased to see that it was an old government 1911 model .45 ACP, a weapon found all over the world. He was not pleased, however, to find that the recoil spring was weaker than it should have been. He tore the pistol completely down to its smallest parts and found that the firing pin was slightly worn as well. A quick check revealed that the barrel was brand new.
“Chief, my Kimber’s in the number-two case over there,” he said. “Would you mind getting it for me? I’m gonna switch out the spring and the firing pin. Might as well use my arched mainspring housing as well. I’m guessing Lerher’s supplier must’ve thrown this thing in for free with the SVD.”
Steelyard laughed, walking toward Gil’s stack of cruise boxes.
“Uh-ten-hut—officer on deck!” suddenly echoed across the hangar.
Gil and Steelyard turned slowly around, both of them annoyed until they saw who it was. They smiled and shook their heads.
“What the fuck?” said Captain Daniel Crosswhite, United States Army Special Forces, as he came strutting across the hangar. “I thought a squid was supposed to snap to whenever he heard that.”
Gil eyed him, an ironic grin coming to his face. “We’re frogs, ya stupid shit.”
“Well, fuckin’ whatever.” Crosswhite laughed, shaking their hands. He was an operator with Delta Force. “I understand you Navy pricks might need some help.”
“Feel like jumping into Iran for me?” Gil asked offhandedly, knowing that Crosswhite was as solid as they came.
Crosswhite gaped at him. “No shit.” He was a handsome fellow with dark hair and eyes, a light, muscular frame and an infectious devil-may-care smile.
“I’m jumping outta that fucker over there.” Gil jutted his chin toward the 727 that was just beginning to taxi toward the runway.
Crosswhite let out a low whistle. “Those Pratt & Whitneys are liable to barbecue your ass, bro.”
Gil looked at Steelyard. “See how fast these Green Beanies piss themselves over a little bit of prop blast?”
Crosswhite laughed. “You’ll think prop blast when your fucking arms and legs go flying off. I’ll bet you’re jumping in the fucking dark, too.”
“Is there any other time?”
Crosswhite became suddenly very serious. “Listen, you tuck and roll, Gilligan. I ain’t shittin’. I mean you pull yourself tight as fuck when you hit that slipstream.”
Gil nodded, equally serious. “I intend to. Believe me.”
“Scary as it is, I am jealous. What about you, Chief?”
“When I was your age, yeah,” Steelyard said. “Now? I’m a little too fucking old for that James Bond shit.”
Gil jerked his thumb at Steelyard. “He’s taking up finger painting next week.”
Steelyard drew deeply from the Cohiba before exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I think what you mean is that I’ll be finger fucking your sister next week.”
Everyone laughed, and they set about helping Gil to check the rest of his gear.
“Fuck Lerher,” Gil muttered a short time later. “I’m taking my oil-dampened compass. This Chinese piece of shit will freeze up there and break.”
“What about this hunk of shit?” Crosswhite asked, holding up a Chinese military hand radio. “Is SOG for real?”
“Unfortunately, that goes along,” Gil said with a frown.
“Well, this just won’t do,” Crosswhite said. “No frog friend of mine is jumping behind enemy lines with nothing but this Chinese piece of shit.”
He got on his cellular.
“Joe, it’s Crosswhite. Listen, I want you to do me a favor… Will you calm down! I haven’t asked you yet.” Crosswhite looked at the other two and rolled his eyes, whispering, “He’s G2. Army Intelligence.”
“I want you to loan one of the things to a frog friend of mine… You know what thing — the thing thing! He’s gonna be down there in a few hours, and I want you to meet him on the tarmac… Yeah? Well, you still owe me for that little fuck-up in Dallas, dude — or did you forget?” Crosswhite spoke with Joe for another couple of minutes, then got off the phone.
“Okay, it’s all set,” he said to Gil. “Now, if that shitty radio goes eighty-six on your ass, we’ll still be able to find you.”
“But what is it?” Gil wanted to know, exchanging puzzled looks with Steelyard.
“A PDA prototype we’ve been working on,” Crosswhite said. “Joe will explain it. Now, tell me what the hell’s going on with Sandra. I’ve heard stories about some fucked-up video.”
CHAPTER 10
Elicia Skelton was a US Army warrant officer attached to the Army Criminal Investigations Command. Twenty-seven years of age, she was half-Chinese and half-Caucasian with a youthful face and dark hair she wore in an army-style chignon. Wearing an army combat uniform with a CID patch on each arm, she marched up the hall and stopped in the doorway of her supervisor’s office, knocking crisply on the doorjamb.
Brent Silverwood looked up from his computer, his mind elsewhere. “Yes, Elicia?” He was a senior civilian investigator with CID, fifty years of age, slender and handsome with brown hair graying at the temples.
“Mr. Silverwood, we’ve got the DNA results on the Taliban bodies from the Sandra Brux abduction.”
Silverwood postured up in the chair, stretching his back and lending her his full attention. “Come in, Elicia. You don’t have to stand there in the door like that.”
She entered, offering him a thick manila file folder, noting the care lines in his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Most of the DNA samples are too common to trace,” she continued, “but we do have a probable match for one of the bodies, a Taliban teenager who was found a hundred yards from the ambush site where he bled out.”
He set the file aside and rocked back in the squeaky chair. “Bring me up to speed.”
She stood more or less at ease with her hands clasped behind her back as she spoke. “Well, it looks like we may have gotten lucky, sir.”
He lifted his eyebrows slightly. “How so?”
“The young man’s DNA is a definitive match with the Kalasha people living in the Hindu Kush. Certain markers in their DNA are unique to them because their gene pool has remained relatively small. Now, it’s not a definite lead to Warrant Officer Brux’s location, but we’re certain this young man is at least related to the people living in the village of Waigal. There’s no way of knowing whether he was operating out of there, but if he was, Sandra Brux just might be somewhere in the Waigal Valley.”
Silverwood sat forward to reach for his phone. “Nice work, Elicia.”
“Thank you, sir.” She started to say something else but hesitated when he began to dial.
“Yes?” he said genially.
“Well, sir… may I… may I ask how your wife is doing, sir?”
He smiled lugubriously and set the phone back down. “She’s still managing, but the pain is increasing almost daily now. I’m afraid I’ll be going home soon to take care of her. She’s decided to stop the chemotherapy.”
Elicia lowered her gaze. “I’m very sorry for you both, sir.”
“So am I. But thank you for asking, Elicia. Most everyone else around here prefers to pretend like I’m my usual self — not that I blame them. It’s never easy to know what to say to someone in my situation.”
“Yes, sir. You’re welcome, sir.” She gave him a tentative smile and left the room.