Bogner continued to make mental notes on what he was seeing until he again heard the four men laughing. Finally, the two guards left through a service door at the front of the building, and moments later the mechanics donned jackets and followed. When they left, Bogner was still wondering how far he could get with the truck.
Ishad Fahid, with Mustafa Jahin standing beside him, glared at his young lieutenant. Only Jahin recognized how much the disposition of the self304 appointed new leader of the Northern Iraqi Military Force had deteriorated in the last hour.
Fahid’s voice was strained and despite his already dark complexion, his face seemed somehow darker.
“I am losing patience. Lieutenant,” he growled.
“This should have been a simple task and you have bungled it. Your efforts thus far have been less than acceptable and this will go on your record.”
Fahid walked around to his side of the desk and sat down.
“Is it necessary for me to remind you that we are dealing with just one man, a man, I might add, who is totally unfamiliar with his surroundings, a man who is operating at less than full capacity because of a gunshot wound that I personally inflicted, and a man who up until now has made a fool of you and your security guards? Do you realize that he has managed to elude you now for well over five hours?”
For Kashic Illah, Fahid’s appraisal of his efforts amounted to a stinging rebuke, and was coming on the heels of a mission he felt had earned him respect in his superior’s eyes, the sacking of the Koboli village.
“We will find him. General,” Illah promised.
“I am convinced he is hiding somewhere in the four buildings in Sector B. Like a dog he has found a place to hide and is licking his wounds. There can be little doubt he has lost a great deal of blood and by now is very weak. It may even be that he is dead.”
“If he is dead bring me his body,” Fahid thundered.
Illah braced himself as Fahid fumbled through a cluttered drawer in his desk until he found a small knife and clipped the end off his cigar. He lit it, inhaled, pulled the ashtray toward him, and paused to savor the aroma. Then he held the cigar at some length and studied the object of his pleasure much as he would have a beautiful woman.
“As I sit here. Lieutenant, I am wondering if you realize what is at stake.”
“We know the American cannot have gotten far, General. It is only a matter of time.”
Fahid leaned forward.
“Let me tell you something, Lieutenant. Less than four hours ago we informed the world that the man who assassinated General Baddour had escaped by killing his unarmed guard. By revealing that the American had escaped, I was setting the stage for what becomes a vital component in how the world perceives the drama unfolding in Ammash. Some may consider it a bit melodramatic perhaps, but it is part of a carefully designed and implemented plan that when it is brought to its inevitable conclusion will change the balance of power in this part of the world. Can you comprehend the importance of what I am telling you. Lieutenant? I am talking about the balance of world power.”
Mustafa Jahin understood what his new general did not. Kashic Illah was a simple man, a foot soldier, a man unable to grasp concepts. He lived in a world of direct orders, total compliance, and devotion to duty. He was not used to hearing the man his fellow officers claimed to be little more than a killing machine philosophize and strategize about theories and abstraction, things of which he knew nothing. More to the point, even now he did not understand why Fahid was so angry.
To him it was a simple matter. The American would be found, and most likely he would be dead when they found him. In his own mind events were only matters of time.
Fahid wasn’t finished.
“This is all part of a plan, Lieutenant, a grand and glorious plan. It requires vision. When you bring me the body of General Baddour’s assassin, we will put his body on display for all the world to see. It is imperative that we show the world that we cannot and will not be bullied by those who seek to interfere in the internal affairs of Iraq. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Illah nodded. The gesture was less than convincing.
“I do not think you do. Lieutenant, so to insure that it happens as I have envisioned it, I am ordering you to report your progress to Major Jahin every hour, on the hour. Is that clear?”
Again Illah nodded.
“You are dismissed, Lieutenant,” Fahid said.
Bogner waited for what seemed like an eternity before he decided between taking the truck and going back to the tunnel. As for the truck option, the most difficult and clearly the riskiest part of the operation would be the simple matter of opening the hangar doors so he could drive the truck out of the hangar. The risk was compounded by the fact that he knew the mechanics could return at any moment.
His string of good fortune continued when he discovered the GAZ had a toggle-switch ignition and the engine was still warm. At least he knew it could run — whether it would or not was another matter. With that much in his favor, he made certain he knew how to get the hangar door open, went back to the truck, stowed the aux pack, and took even more time to search the workbench for anything else he thought might come in handy. He grabbed a can of gasoline, a jacket that had been left behind, and a pair of gloves.
As an extra precaution, he went to the service door, peered out into the night, made certain no one was in sight, and decided to go for it. Between the NIMF uniform Jahin had given him and the cover of darkness, he thought he just might be able to make it. He returned to the truck, crawled up in the cab, began flipping switches, and held his breath until the GAZ fired.
He was about to kick it in gear when he saw the service door fly open. The mechanics had returned, and it didn’t take them long to size up the situation. Bogner rammed the GAZ into gear, then tried to maneuver the truck out into the open bay past the missiles, but one of the men leaped on the running board, reached through, and grabbed the wheel. Bogner threw his elbow and caught the man in the throat. Both men, the mechanic and Bogner, let out a yelp. The mechanic because he had suddenly and unceremoniously had his air supply cut off, and Bogner because he had used his throbbing left arm to club the man. A stabbing pain started at the place where Fahid had shot him, spiraled up Bogner’s arm, and plowed its way into his brain. The difference was the Iraqi flew into space, hit the floor, rolled over, and lay motionless.
Bogner somehow managed to keep going.
The second mechanic was less brave. He cowered behind the Foxbat, waiting to see what Bogner would do next. Bogner jerked the steering wheel to the left, took out the left landing gear of the Foxbat, crushed the grille and hood of the GAZ, and ripped a hole in the wing of the MiG. He leaped out of the cab of the truck just as the second mechanic lumbered to his feet. Then Bogner took three quick steps, threw his best shoulder block into the man, and ended up on top of the mechanic with the business end of the Mk 2 buried in the meaty part of the man’s throat.
“Take it real slow and real easy, little man, hear me, slow and easy,” Bogner was being careful to enunciate each word.
“Now — if you understand any English at all, you’ll do just exactly what I tell you — and if you do, maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to pull the trigger on this thing and splatter your brains all over that Foxbat.”
Bogner waited before finally pushing himself up and off the mechanic. He stood up and waited for his quarry to scramble to his feet. Behind him, Bogner could see the first mechanic still writhing on the hangar floor. Bogner was certain he wouldn’t present a problem until he found a way to start breathing again.