Disavowed (9 page)

Chapter 18

6 Miles South of Panjwai, Afghanistan

12:52am AFT, August 25
th

Rich Isnard sat drying his bare feet along the top bank of what was left of the Dori River. The winter melts would replenish the life giving water supply, but now it wasn’t more than a trickle. He couldn’t see it, but just across the river bed lay the Registan Desert with its red sand hills and rolling desert plains. Isnard swore he could smell the arid expanse, or maybe that was the miles of road dust he now carried on his clothing. Every time he moved a cloud of dust billowed off his body.

Andy was lying next to him, turning fitfully in his sleep. The poor guy’s insides were shot. Who knew what bug he’d picked up since being captured? Ever since leaving the checkpoint hours before, Andy had spent most of the ride hopping off the battered tank to dry heave or drop his pants. He kept a brave face, but Isnard knew Andy was dehydrated and in need of medical attention. By the end of the march, the Marine had stumbled to the ground and passed out. One of the nomads had carried him to where he now lay.

They weren’t far from Kandahar, no more than twenty miles as the crow flies. It felt like much more.

While the nomadic tribe treated them with every courtesy, they were also tight-lipped about their destination. Isnard didn’t press. Latif was even now talking with the elders, hoping to negotiate a quick trip. At least they were going in the right general direction.

Alone he probably could’ve made a break for it, somehow made his way to Kandahar. But with Andy in his current condition, there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d make it together. He wouldn’t leave his fellow Marine behind. No way.

The tribe was spread out over the landscape, the women and children already having prepared bedding and meals. Leaders retired to consult in a sagging tent, the smell of pipe smoke wafting from the open flap. They would call the Marines in soon, or so they’d told him.

He listened to the sweet singing of a group of children nearby, some native nursery rhyme he couldn’t place. The lullaby soothed his nerves, trying to erase the last day’s journey. Isnard inhaled, savoring the feel, allowing himself a moment to rest.

His revery ended with the distant drone of aircraft. Helicopters.

They swooped in from the clouds, Russian-made if he had to guess. Maybe friends of his hosts?

The answer came a blink later as shouts filled the night, people running, scattering. Isnard crammed his feet back into his socks and boots. Grabbing his weapon, he went to shake Andy awake, but he was already struggling to his feet. In the dim light his face looked even more sunken.

Both men whipped their gaze toward the still invisible aircraft, making their way along the riverbank. Without warning, three Mi-24 Hinds swooped out of the sky and fired into the center of the encampment. The tanks were the first to go, all four taken out in the first barrage. Turrets flying, the squeal of tearing metal.

Screams from the dying, wails from the running. Those brave enough to stand their ground and return fire were cut down as the two Marines put more distance between them and the slaughter. Given better weapons or even a platoon of men, Isnard would’ve considered staying. But the attack helicopters, also known as “Flying Tanks” for their heavy armament, were impervious to the pitiful weapons in the hands of the desert tribe.

A plume of raging red reached up to the sky, illuminating the area with a boom. Probably the tribe’s fuel trucks.

It was slow going as Isnard kept one arm around Andy, helping him forward. They stumbled and fell. Up again. Crouching in the night, slinking away.

The noise faded. The tribe fled west while the Marine struggled east, toward Kandahar. All alone. Tripping along, the riverbank to their right, daring them to fall once more.

He sensed it before he heard it. The creeping feeling crawling up his back. Aircraft engines powering forward, following, tracking them. Isnard felt the air being sucked out the world. He didn’t hesitate, shoving Andy violently toward the river, tumbling end over end to safety, hopefully.

The Marine turned slowly, aimed his inadequate weapon at the sound of the approaching helicopter, and waited.

Chapter 19

6 Miles South of Panjwai, Afghanistan

1:03am AFT, August 25
th

The Hind came in slowly, a deliberate stalk. She had the ability to blaze across the night sky but she didn’t. Its crew knew it had the advantage. A man standing in the open with a submachine gun was no match for the armor and weaponry of the flying arsenal.

The aircraft flared, giving Isnard a momentary glimpse of its underbelly. For some reason he held his shot, still waiting, calculating his next move. He’d faced down warlords, murderers and his fair share of gun barrels in his career, but he’d never stood toe-to-toe with anything like this. A simple trigger pull from their gunners would wipe him off the planet, while his own would probably ding harmlessly off the helo’s hull.

Sand swept into his face as the enemy settled onto the ground. Through the grit and wash he could see that every weapon the Hind had was aimed at him. Isnard stood resolute, still sighting down the length of his weapon.

The side hatch opened and a slim figure emerged wearing a black flight suit and a sophisticated pilot’s helmet. Only the man’s clean shaven mouth and chin were exposed. Whoever it was wasn’t armed and trotted over to where Isnard waited. He was so tempted to blow the guy away after what he’d seen them do to the tribe. But he held his anger, squared his jaw.

“Where is your friend?” the pilot shouted over the helicopter’s whine.

“Who are you?”

“There is no time. The others will be back soon. We must get you on board before they return.”

It felt like a trap. As soon as they stepped aboard the helo someone was either going to put a bullet in both of their heads or snap cuffs on their wrists. But something in the urgency of the man’s tone made Isnard pause. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes through the helmets tinted visor so he had to rely on body language. Years of dealing with crooks and thieves meant that Rich Isnard was like a one-man lie detector, sensing a person’s intent without a word. He’d once estimated that his success rate hovered somewhere around 97%. The other three percent were clinically psychotic.

Life was a gamble. Why not roll the dice one last time?

“He’s in the river bed,” said Isnard, motioning with his head.

“Come, I will help you get him.”

Two minutes later they dragged a dazed and listless Andy up the steep river bank and into the helicopter. Mud caked the side of his face and half of his body from where he’d landed.

There were four crew members inside the troop compartment, faces covered with balaclavas. Three ignored the new passengers while the fourth helped them climb aboard and pointed to two seats. No sooner had the pilot entered behind them, than the hatch closed and Isnard felt the bird lift off.

The pilot made for the cockpit but Isnard grabbed him by the arm.

“What just happened?”

The pilot regarded the Marine for a moment. The spook wished he could see the man’s eyes, tell what he was thinking. Finally the man responded.

“Not everyone in Afghanistan is
on the take
, as you Americans say. You have friends in high places, Mr. Isnard. It is lucky that they know who
their
friends are. I suggest you learn to do the same.”

Without further explanation the pilot went to the cockpit. Isnard allowed the relief to flood his body like a much needed shower, cleansing, rejuvenating.

He sat down next to Andy who was getting an IV drip from the only crew member paying them any attention. A bag of fluid hung from a makeshift hook made from a bent coat hanger and three more sat in a crate on the floor.

He patted Andy on the cheek and received a weak smile in return. Andy’s eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids kept drooping like he was going in and out of delirium.

“Close your eyes and get some rest,” said Isnard, patting his own shoulder so that his friend would rest his head there.

Andy nodded and laid his head against his fellow Marine. He was snoring in less than a minute.

Isnard leaned his head back and exhaled. He hated to think what would’ve happened if he’d pulled the trigger. Thank God for small miracles.

+++

Kandahar, Afghanistan

1:05am AFT, August 25
th

They piled into Kreyling’s two extended cab trucks, gear and one man in each of the beds. Daniel in one and Gaucho in the other.

No sooner had they left the airport compound than four sets of lights popped up behind them, maybe two hundred yards back, the gap closing quickly.

“You have a plan?” asked Cal.

“Sort of. I was more worried about getting you to the hangar. Didn’t have much time to put a plan together,” answered Kreyling who was driving. Rango was handling the second truck.

“Do you have some place we can go?”

“Sure, but I don’t want to lead those bastards to find out where we stay. Let me give some old friends a call. They owe me.”

Kreyling pulled out a cell phone and started giving clipped orders to the guy on the other line. It didn’t sound like the Brit was talking to a friend, but that was just his way. All business. Niceties be damned.

Soon after he put the phone back in his pocket. “It’s all set.”

“What is?”

Kreyling’s chuckle sounded more like a growl. “Don’t bother your pretty little head about it, Yank. Her Majesty’s finest have got you covered.” 

+++

Anthony Farrago gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, two of which still had blood on them from the beating he’d given the idiot in the tower. He’d never double-cross Farrago again.

His troops were gaining on the Americans and whoever had paid off the airport manager. Farrago couldn’t wait to get his hands on them. He’d told his men that he didn’t care if anyone on the other side came out alive, but he was now reconsidering the order. He had to find out what these newcomers knew and how they’d gotten in touch with Isnard.

The icing on the cake would be if they knew where Isnard and Andrews were. Sweeping up all the players in a neat little pile would not only save Farrago time, but it would allow him to green-light the rest of the operation. Time was ticking and he didn’t have long. With Coles gently nudging from Washington, Farrago knew this was it for him. Fix things or find another job.

Hopefully after this one he wouldn’t have to worry about his future. One way or another, Anthony Farrago was going to seal the deal and ensure his legacy. Most men would want to take a vacation after something like this. He was already thinking about the next chess match. For Farrago it was all about the chase, a fact that none of his wives had appreciated. Adrenaline fueled him, pushed him farther.

As he closed the gap with the two vehicles up ahead, Farrago thought of a line from one of his favorite movies,
Road House,
starring Patrick Swayze. Fitting for what he had planned coming from Sam Elliot’s hard living character, Wade Garrett.
“I’ll get all the sleep I need when I’m dead.”
Farrago chuckled, popped another upper into his mouth, and pressed the pedal to the floor. 

Chapter 20

Kandahar, Afghanistan

1:24am AFT, August 25
th

Kreyling took a hard right, pulling into a small parking lot. Cal estimated twelve to fifteen parking spots marked by rubble and splashes of white spray paint. One story buildings surrounded the lot, making it sort of a courtyard. It looked like a death trap to Cal. Nowhere to go. Their pursuers were close.

“Please tell me you didn’t take a wrong turn.”

Kreyling just shook his head, snagged the shotgun off the dash and stepped out. Cal followed after motioning for Higgins and Neil Patel to stay in the truck.

He’d allow the Brit to lead whatever scheme he’d concocted, but he wouldn’t risk his support personnel. Cal trusted the SAS veteran, his instincts in urban settings were uncanny. But sitting in an empty parking lot with no way out was crazy. At least they should take cover and setup a hasty ambush. Standing out in the open wasn’t Cal’s style.

Nope. Kreyling stood with his arms crossed facing the entrance, his face set with its usual grim determination.

The enemy approached, cautiously taking in the situation. Cal could only imagine what they were thinking. Good thing they didn’t have mounted weapons.

They piled out all at once, black-clad stalkers wearing balaclavas. The two men heading toward Kreyling were not wearing masks, unperturbed by the lack of anonymity. A large Middle Easterner led the procession. He had one ear left and a jagged scar across his pock marked forehead that pushed his eyebrows down into an eternal scowl. He was not carrying a weapon that Cal could see.

The man just behind him had a lighter complexion and the facial features of a foreigner. He was smiling as if he’d just made a delicious discovery. Similar to his friend, this man’s hands were empty.

The oversized ogre growled.

“Well you’re one ugly bastard, aren’t you?” said Kreyling, still maintaining his stance in front of Cal and the rest of the Americans. Rango lounged off to the side, running his hand back and forth along the length of his H&K.

Cal counted nineteen men, seventeen of whom were fanning out to cover any possible escape. The Marine glanced at Daniel Briggs who was casually taking in the display. He looked almost bored. MSgt Trent and Gaucho looked like they wanted to pounce, shifting their weight slowly from foot to foot.

Cal didn’t doubt that his men could put up a good fight, but they were outnumbered. Casualties were inevitable. Not that he was scared of a fight, but better to wait for a more opportune moment.

The non-Arab pushed his goon aside and stepped forward.

“You’re all under arrest.”

“Under whose authority?” asked Kreyling.

“The Afghan government and The United States of America.” An American. The guy had spook written all over him.

Kreyling chuckled. “Sorry, chap, but I don’t take orders from you or your governments.”

The man frowned. “And who do you take orders from?”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m the Queen’s butler. I go wherever the hell she tells me to go. Chamber pots are my specialty.”

No one laughed. The tension and stakes were too high.

The stranger’s mouth curved into a sarcastic smile. “My orders are to take you in. Someone will sort the rest out with your government later.”

“Sorry. I’ve got my orders too, and they don’t include sharing a cell with your overgrown ape,” Kreyling said, motioning to the beast standing in front of him, whose eyes burned as he looked from target to target, obviously choosing his favorite one. He must have understood English because his head snapped back to Kreyling at the remark. He stepped forward, a drop of spittle leaking from his cracked lips.

Kreyling didn’t move.

“I suggest you tell your foul friend to back away before I make him kiss the pavement,” Kreyling said as if he’d asked for a napkin at the dinner table.

“I think I’d like to see that,” said the spook.

A shrill whistle sounded from the closest rooftop. Cal’s gaze followed the others. Barely visible all along the roof were more black clad shadows. They’d appeared all at once, completely silent. Cal’s hand shifted on his weapon, readying for deployment. The look on the CIA guy’s kept him from moving. Was it fear? Were those not his men on top of the buildings?

The answer came a moment later when Kreyling said, “As you can see, more of the Queen’s staff have just arrived. I suggest you take your thugs and make for home. I wouldn’t like to see what happens to you if you stick around.”

The American looked from the newest arrivals to his own men. Some of his mercenaries were already backing away. They knew they were outnumbered, probably two to one.

“This isn’t over. We’ll see each other soon,” the man said, locking his glare on Cal.

Cal grinned, lifted his hand and extended his middle finger.

The spook barked a command, and his minions slithered back into their vehicles and sped off into the night.

“I assume those are your friends?” Cal asked, pointing to the rooftops where the shadows were slipping down from their perches.

“Right. Some old SAS dogs and the odd Royal Marine. I think you’ll like them.”

Cal nodded. “I’d say I owe them a pint or two.”

Kreyling’s only visible eyebrow arched. “Don’t let them hear that. They’ll drink you broke if you let them.”

Cal clapped his friend on the back and motioned for him to lead the way. He was looking forward to meeting Kreyling’s friends.

+++

1:39am

The Hind touched down just outside of a small cluster of homes on the edge of Kandahar. Andy was on his third bag of IV fluids. The medic pulled out the IV line and moved on to securing his gear and opening the side hatch.

His face still covered, the pilot met them at the open door, a steady stream of desert sand blowing in from the prop wash. He put his mouth close to Isnard’s ear.

“There is a man in that orchard,” the pilot pointed into the inky blackness. “He will escort you the rest of the way.”

“Thank you for helping us,” said Isnard, for once at a loss for the right words.

The pilot nodded. “Do not give up on my country, Mr. Isnard. Despite what your papers might say, there are still those of us who believe in a free Afghanistan.”

He shook Isnard’s hand and returned to the cockpit. The medic waited for the Marines to debark. Isnard had to help Andy out, struggling to keep his friend upright. The fluids had brought color back to his face, but Andy still needed medical attention. His legs wobbled as he moved.

They ducked down as the helicopter rose into the air and flew north, the sound of its powerful engines fading into the blackness. Alone again.

They didn’t move, letting their senses adjust to the darkness, taking in their new surroundings. A dog barked in the distance, followed by a car backfiring. Other than that the night was quiet, subdued.

When Isnard was confident that they weren’t walking into an ambush, he eased Andy to his feet, and they made their way toward the walled orchard. They could only hope that this would be the last leg of their journey.