Hide and Seek (6 page)

“Have a seat, gentlemen.” The team spread out, settling into the padded chairs. An Air Force sergeant sat at a control center. Weidman looked at him. “Dismissed.”

The man rose without a word and left. The captain took the man’s seat and placed his fingers on a computer keyboard. “Ready, sir.”

J. J. wondered if the colonel would introduce the other officer.

“Let’s get started, men.”

Apparently not.

A knot formed in J. J.’s stomach. Being yanked from one meeting to attend an unscheduled one couldn’t be good. “I take it this isn’t a surprise birthday party, Colonel.” J. J. kept his voice even and respectful.

“No, Master Sergeant, it is not.” Weidman clasped his hands behind his back. “What you’re about to see was broadcast thirty minutes ago. One of our intel groups recorded it and forwarded it to my desk. It’s short and to the point. After that Colonel Mac will join us by video link.” He paused one second. “Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

The screen glowed, flickered for a moment, then began to play. The knot in J. J.’s belly doubled in size. A woman with skin two shades too pale and dark hair hanging to her jaw appeared. She looked into a camera in typical foreign correspondent fashion made popular by CNN and FOX News. She stood in the middle of a wide street. Two- and three-story buildings bracketed her. Perhaps it was a camera setting gone wrong, but the sun seemed a tad too dim. The woman looked nervous, glanced over her shoulder several times, and shifted her eyes to look beyond the camera at events only she could see.

She touched her ear and cocked her head one inch to the right. She straightened and held a microphone close to her lips. “Kyrgyzstan has been a country on the edge for years.” Nervousness gave her voice an unwanted vibrato. She had an Eastern European accident. “In 2010, it saw riots and protests leaving many dead and thousands injured. Later that year a near civil war erupted, displacing hundreds of thousands of citizens who were forced to flee for their lives. At the roots of tension is a cocktail of distrust, accusation of government corruption, an uncontrollable rate of inflation, unemployed near twenty percent, and the growing global financial crisis that began in 2008 and which, despite efforts of many governments, continues to grow worse with no hope in sight. The situation has become grave.”

The camera captured a growing mob some distance behind her. Black smoke rose in a dozen narrow columns. J. J. assumed they were burning vehicles and tires. A small sedan pulled through an intersection as if nothing were going on.

“The United Nations recently called this country a tinderbox and it appears they were right. A short time ago, crowds began filling the streets of downtown Bishkek, chanting in Kyrgyz: ‘Out with America. Death to America.’ The United States has had a presence in this country since the earliest days of the Afghan conflict. At the heart of the problem is the Manas Transit Center, formerly known as Manas Air Base. The facility, a short distance north of the capital city of Bishkek where I now stand, has been a source of hatred.”

The sound of distant gunfire invaded her microphone, and the woman ducked. Then, realizing the shots were not nearby, continued. J. J. couldn’t decide if she was brave or just crazy. He saw embedded journalists at the frontline of battle and knew of several who were wounded or killed.

“While it appears there are many reasons for the unrest, hatred of America seems to be the flame to the fuel. Eight percent of the population is Muslim, and several religious leaders have called for followers to protest the presence of infidels in their country. That, however, may not be the primary problem. Tensions between the Uzbeks, which make up only 14 percent of the population, and the majority Kyrgyzstani have grown rapidly over the last year. Whatever the cause—”

A red sedan came to the intersection behind the reporter and made a right turn, headed straight for the approaching mob. Brake lights came on, then the back-up lights blazed. The driver realized he or she was headed into the open maw of trouble. The sporty car began to back up and the mob sprinted forward.

A white panel van rounded the corner from the opposite direction and rammed the back of the sedan. Three armed men poured from the inside of the van and approached the car. J. J. recognized an AK-108 and what looked like a Serbian-made Zastava M92 submachine gun. The third man carried some kind of handgun but was too distant and indistinct for J. J. to identify. They pulled a short-haired woman from the red car.

“Crowds have gathered in several parts of the city. Some demonstrate peacefully, but there have been reports of violence and looting.”

“Keep your eyes fixed on the action behind the reporter,” Weidman said.

A silver sedan shot through the intersection and out of view, only to reappear a moment later, smoke billowing from spinning tires. The sound of the engine and screeching tires made its way to the microphone and the reporter. She turned.

The silver sedan charged forward at the three men and the woman held at gunpoint.

The car plunged toward the men and the woman. They scattered, but one assailant was too slow. He flew up and back, his AK-108 flying several feet beyond where his body landed. The woman scampered to the side then, after only a moment’s hesitation, bolted for the silver sedan. A moment later she was in the back seat, then disappeared. She must have ducked to the floorboards, J. J. decided.

The driver pulled forward, which at first made no sense, but then J. J. realized why. The man with the submachine gun had stepped forward and raised his weapon. He squeezed the trigger for a moment before leaping to the side to avoid being run over.

“He’s got nowhere to go,” Pete said.

“She,” Weidman said.

“She? You’re kidding, right?” Crispin said, then quickly added, “Sir.”

He didn’t answer. The colonel kept his eye fixed on the video.

The sedan’s brake lights came on and, as with the first car, so did its back-up lights.

The thug with the handgun was on his feet and aiming at the car as it raced backward. The driver’s side door swung open and the car accelerated at stunning speed. The open door caught the gunman as he squeezed off a shot, knocking him to the ground and dragging him along the asphalt until they reached the intersection. The driver yanked the car around. The front wheels drove over the assailant. The man with the submachine gun was up and firing at the car.

The car door dangled as the sedan pulled away with a lurch, veering first right then left.

“She was wounded,” J. J. guessed.

“We think so,” the colonel said.

The gunman let go another burst as the car pulled away. The reporter glanced at the camera and said, “Run!”

Red fluid and gray spongy material splattered the camera lens. Hardened to violence as J. J. was, he turned his head.

“I did not need to see that.” Pete sounded stunned.

The video ended and Weidman stepped to the center of the room. “What you saw happened less than half an hour ago. Here’s what you don’t know. The woman in the red car, the one they tried to abduct, is Jildiz Oskonbaeva, the daughter of the Kyrgyzstani government.”

“So she’s safe, right?” Pete asked. “I mean, we saw her rescued, and, man, what a rescue. I mean—”

“Let the colonel talk, Pete.” J. J. said.

“Yes, Boss.”

“I’m sorry to say, no. I sent up a helicopter to sweep the area. The car made it only a few blocks. The tires were shot out, as were the rear and front windows.”

“Sir? You sent up a helo?”

“Yes, but we were called off by Sariev Dootkasy, the country’s prime minister. He speaks for the government. He said flyovers by U.S. aircraft would make the protests worse.”

“Protests? Looks more like a riot.” Mike Nagano sounded angry.

“That’s what it is, Sergeant,” Weidman said. “We know that but politicians the world over use a different language than we mere humans.” He paused. “The helo crew was able to confirm the make, model, and license number. The car belongs to Captain Amelia Lennon. She’s our Foreign Affairs Officer. Lives in-country, travels under civilian passport. She was working with the embassy and the local government on renegotiating our base’s right to remain in-country. Sadly, we believe both are dead but we can’t verify it.”

The knot in J. J.’s stomach became a brick.

Weidman turned to his aide. “Captain, bring Colonel MacGregor in.”

The video monitor activated again, this time with a familiar image: a middle-aged man with Army-short hair, a tanned face, and chiseled features. He had intelligent eyes that J. J. was sure could see through steel. As the spec ops commander in the recently built Concrete Palace at Fort Jackson, he oversaw most Army spec ops efforts. He was a legend who refused praise and preferred action over talk.

A small red light appeared below the monitor: a video camera J. J. hadn’t noticed when he first entered the room. No doubt Colonel Mac could see them.

“They’re all yours, Colonel,” Weidman said.

“Thanks, Danny.” Mac leaned over the table in the situation room and deep into the camera lens as if trying to push his will through the device and halfway around the world. “I see your new team members have arrived, J. J.”

“Yes, sir. All present and accounted for.”

“You’ve been brought up to speed?”

“We’ve seen the news video, sir, and have been told a few things about Captain Lennon.”

He nodded. “I’m going to do what I’d rather not. I’m sending you on mission. You leave as soon as you kit up.” He raised his head, settling his vision on something behind J. J. “Sergeants Urale and Nagano, I assume you brought your kit and weapons case.”

“Yes, sir.” The men answered in unison.

“Okay, it’s time for the straight skinny. Master Sergeant Bartley is under orders to test your continued fitness for spec ops duty. You can’t lose a whole team and not be changed. You’ve been cleared by medical in Afghanistan. That’s all just peachy, but I need to know if you’re fit for boots on the ground work. J. J. won’t have time to test you. I’m about to ask a lot of you. Before I do, I need to know from you two if you’re good to go. Are you?”

Aliki stood. “Good to go, Colonel.”

Nagano joined him. “Same here, Colonel. Speak it and we’ll do it.”

“Good to hear, gentlemen. As you were.” Mac’s eyes shifted. “J. J., I need to hear from you. Can you lead a team with two members you haven’t tested yet?”

“Affirmative, Colonel.” J. J. wondered if he just lied.

Mac straightened. “We have several problems, gentlemen. The locals have told us to remain on base and to not interfere with what’s going on. Riots have been breaking out in several cities including Talas, Osh, Jalal-Ahad, Tokmak. Intel has sent an alert to Colonel Weidman and the State Department that there may be an assault made on Manas by radicals. That means all soldiers on the base are required to protect our assets. That leaves you as our only Direct Action team. You still with me?”

“Yes, sir. With you all the way.”

“Good. Your mission is simple to say but may be a bigger challenge than it sounds at first. Your job is to go in covertly, find the body of Captain Lennon, retrieve it, and bring it back to the base. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. What about the president’s daughter.”

Mac seemed to soften. “You are not to recover her body. That will be the job of the local military.” He paused. “It’s a diplomatic decision, gentlemen, one that sticks in my craw big time.”

“Are we certain that Captain Lennon is dead?” Jose asked.

“High probability, Doc. If not, then your job will be a thousand times more difficult.”

“Why is that, Colonel?” J. J. didn’t like the tone.

“Captain Lennon is SERE Level C trained.”

Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training. Only the Army had high-risk training, something J. J. knew well. He still had nightmares about the twenty-one days of training.

“Understood, Colonel.”

“You will make entrance into the city, find the car she was in, if possible retrieve the body, then make a safe exit back to the base. Be good, be fast, be safe. Understood?”

A chorus of “Hooah!” filled the space.

Mac seemed proud.

And worried.

“WH-WHAT JUST HAPPENED?” JILDIZ
insisted they stop and rest for a moment. Amelia argued against it but she could tell the woman was exhausted by fear and the unexpected exertion. She held a hand to her chest, fist clenched.

“I’m not sure. The only thing I know was that those men were trying to snatch you. Have you ever seen them before?”

They were hiding next to a dumpster. A cat strolled by seemingly perturbed by unwanted humans in his domain.

“No. They hurt me.” She rubbed her arms then brought her fist back to her chest. She looked into Amelia’s face. “You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”

Amelia wiped at her eye. She used her right hand. Odd, since she was left-handed. That’s when she noticed the deep gash on her hand. It continued to ooze blood. A wound recognized hurts worse than one not noticed. The open gash began to burn as did the one over her left eyebrow. “Just a graze, I think.” It felt worse than that.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . .”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Jildiz. You’re not the first powerful person to be a kidnapper’s target.”

“I’m not that important.”

“You’re the daughter of the president. You should have security around you all the time. I can’t believe your father lets you travel alone.”

“That’s my idea. I don’t like having security around me.”

“This might change your mind. Do you have your cell phone?”

“No. I had it on the seat in the car.”

Amelia pulled hers from a pocket and tried to place a call to the embassy. Nothing. There was no signal. “Cell system is down. That means things are worse than they seem.”

“Is that possible?”

“Yes. Very possible.” Amelia glanced up and down the alley in which they had taken refuge. She estimated they had run a mile ducking in and out of alleys. Overhead, smoke began to darken the sky. The smell of burning buildings and the pungent smell of tire smoke assaulted her nose.