Joshua`s Hammer (23 page)

He looked into her eyes as he held her, watching her life run out, feeling it in the unnatural looseness of her muscles. "Peace, my little one," he said. "Insha'Allah."

Sarah's face went utterly pale, and blood stopped bubbling out of her mouth at the same time the last missile struck a hundred meters away, destroying the nomad tent.

Bin Laden threw back his head and screamed a cry of anguish from the bottom of his soul, while in another compartment of his brain he could feel his heart already hardening for the terrible task that lay ahead of them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The White House

President Haynes glanced at the clock when the direct line from the CIA chirped. It was 10:05 p.m. Waiting with him in the Oval Office were his national security adviser Dennis Berndt and his chief of staff Tony Lang. He'd been in a blue funk all evening, ever since he'd agreed to the missile attack on bin Laden's mountain camp. "This isn't a war game, Dennis," he'd peevishly told his NSA earlier. "Real people are going to get killed up there." "Sometimes things like this have to be done, Mr. President," Berndt had replied.

The problem was that he saw no other way out of the gravest situation the U.S. had faced since Pearl Harbor. The President put the call on the speakerphone. "Good evening, Roland."

"Good evening, Mr. President," Murphy replied, tiredly. He sounded resigned. "The attack just got over, and it looks good. From what we're seeing the camp was completely wiped out. There won't be many survivors."

The President looked at his advisers. "Was there any indication of a secondary nuclear explosion?" It was something he'd worried about.

"No, sir. My people tell me that even if we had hit the package, it would not have caused a detonation. But we're putting a drone on target now to check for radiation."

"No accidents this time?" the President asked. "We didn't hit anything we weren't supposed to hit?"

"No, sir. There's nothing in the near vicinity of bin Laden's camp," Murphy assured him. "We're putting together the damage assessment now. Should be ready in a couple of hours once we get the data back from the drone. I can bring it over to you tonight."

"That's not necessary, Roland. It's too late for any sort of an announcement tonight in any event. I'm scheduling a news conference for eleven in the morning. If you can get over here by nine it'll be plenty of time."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"I'm sorry about McGarvey, he was a brave man. What he tried to do for us out there was very courageous. But he never really had a chance."

"You're probably right, Mr. President."

"I'll call his wife--"

"Mr. President, why don't we wait on that until morning," Murphy said. "I haven't told his daughter yet either."

"You can't think there's still hope."

"McGarvey's come out of tough situations before. He's a survivor. Let's wait."

Berndt was shaking his head in disgust, and for some reason it irritated the President and he shot him a dirty look.

"Okay, General, we'll hold it until morning," the President agreed. "But I want you to know that if there's any sign that McGarvey's still alive I'll give you anything you need to get him back. Anything."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

"Try to get some sleep, Roland. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

"You too, Mr. President."

In the Afghan Mountains McGarvey crouched in a depression above the path waiting for them to come after him. As soon as he'd heard the first batch of what sounded like incoming jets down in the valley he'd slipped away. He knew what they were, but Mohammed and the others had jumped up and run down river to the cliff to look.

It was just his bad luck that they'd had the presence of mind to take their weapons with them. But he had managed to grab Mohammed's pack and get out of there before they came running back. As soon as he'd found a suitable vantage point from which to defend himself, he'd retrieved his gun and spare magazine of ammunition from the bundle of filthy, stinking clothing, blankets and food. The gun was oily and gritty from something that had gotten all over it, but he pumped a couple of rounds out and the mechanism worked okay.

McGarvey watched the path carefully, as he considered his options. He was pissed off, but his anger would have to wait. For the moment his biggest challenge would be saving his own life and then somehow getting out of Afghanistan. The time for talking had ended when the first cruise missile had struck. If bin Laden had survived he would use the bomb. There was no doubt about it. Their only hope now was to stop it before it got to the States.

For that he needed a phone to warn Otto, and to work out a means of getting out of the country. That's providing he could first survive the three-to-one odds he was facing now, and then make it down to Kabul without running the car off the mountain cliffs.

He thought about trying to reach Pakistan over the mountains, but that would be next to impossible without guides and provisions. And it would take far too long. Because of the missile attack they no longer had the luxury of time.

What the hell were they thinking? They could have waited for at least a couple of days. He didn't want to get into a firefight with his mujahedeen. He was outnumbered and outgunned. But he didn't think Mohammed was going to simply give up and scurry back to camp. The man had a score to settle and it was going to be here and now.

McGarvey raised his head a couple of inches above the rim of the depression in time to see Farid dash up the path and duck behind a large boulder. They were about five hundred yards from the camp, just beyond the copse of trees and the pool where Sarah had almost been raped. The stream tumbling over the rocks just below the path made a lulling sound, but from farther up he could hear the deeper throated roar where it fell down a series of cataracts.

"We have to go back now, mista Farid called up.

McGarvey studied the path and the rocks and brush below it. He could make out the flash suppressor on the end of Farid's rifle, but he could not spot the other two mujahedeen.

Farid suddenly leaped up and darted another ten yards up the path, throwing himself into the ditch. A second later Hash sprung from the trees and keeping low raced to the protection of the boulder Farid had just left. He leaped up and fired a sustained burst into the rocks and boulders about twenty yards farther west from McGarvey's position, the gunfire shockingly loud in the narrow defile, bullets ricocheting all over the place.

They knew that he was up here somewhere, and they were trying to draw him out to pinpoint his position. He was at a triple disadvantage; they not only outnumbered and outgunned him, but these were their mountains. They were just as at home here as McGarvey was in Paris or Washington.

Except for the sounds of the stream a stillness descended over them. The problem was Mohammed. He was out there somewhere too, and between the three of them they had probably hatched some sort of a plan.

He checked over his shoulder, but so far as he could tell nothing moved on the steep, rock-strewn slope that rose four hundred feet to the top of a hill studded with scraggly wind-bent trees.

They wouldn't want to stick around here too long. It was the one weakness in their plan. They knew that they had to get back to the camp as soon as possible to see what had happened, help with the wounded and pack up what remained to bug out. Unless Mohammed forced them to stay until McGarvey was dead they might not come after him if he doubled back, climbed down to the valley and made it to the Rover.

He dumped the contents of Mohammed's pack on the ground and hurriedly searched through the greasy, filthy clothes for the car keys or anything else he could use, while keeping an eye on the path below. There was nothing for him among the mujahed's meager possessions. It was Farid who had driven the Rover, so the keys would either be in his backpack at the camp by the pool, or with him in a pocket. If he could make it down to the Rover he would find something to pop the ignition lock and hot-wire the starter.

Farid jumped up and fired a burst into the hill to the west of McGarvey. An instant later Hash fired another sustained burst walking his shots east. McGarvey had to duck down and cover his head as the shots hammered the rocks directly below him. Too late he realized that they knew where he was hiding and they were pinning him down. He looked over his shoulder when a rifle muzzle was jammed into the side of his head.

The firing from below suddenly ceased and Mohammed laughed wildly. Blood dripped from the filthy bandage on his wounded hand, and his face was cut up from flying rock chips. "I warned him about you," he shouted triumphantly. "But he wouldn't listen." He stepped back a little, the rifle never wavering from McGarvey's head. "Put your gun down. Get to your feet."

McGarvey carefully laid his gun on a flat rock and got up, spreading his hands out to either side, letting a calmness come over him. Mohammed's eyes were red and they kept flicking from McGarvey to the path below. He held the Kalashnikov in a white-knuckled death grip. His clothing was dirty and ripped from his climb up the hill over the rocks. The butt of his pistol had worked itself half out of his vest, the hammer snagged on the corner of a pocket. If he tried to pull it out in a hurry it would catch. "So now what? Are you going to take me back to bin Laden?"

"You're not going to leave this place alive."

"That would be a very big mistake--"

"You didn't come here to talk," Mohammed shouted.

"That's not true."

"Where else did your missiles hit, mista Mohammed demanded. He was working himself up.

"I don't know," McGarvey replied calmly.

"Liar," Mohammed snarled. "Come up here now," he called down to Hash and Farid.

McGarvey figured he had only a couple of minutes before the other two got up here and then the odds against him would be impossible. He smiled. "I'll tell you what, Mohammed. If you turn around right now and get the hell out of here I won't kill you."

Mohammed was surprised and then enraged. He poked the rifle muzzle sharply into McGarvey's chest. It was a mistake.

"Just go, and you'll live to fight another day," McGarvey said, in an infuriatingly relaxed tone. "But if you poke me again I will kill you. For Sarah."

The mujahed's face turned purple. "Slut," he shouted wildly. He pulled the rifle back, his left hand on the stock, his wounded right hand near the trigger guard, and he swung the heavy butt at McGarvey's head. McGarvey ducked the blow and drove his shoulder into the man's chest, knocking him off his feet. McGarvey yanked the Kalashnikov out of Mohammed's hands and spun around.

Hash and Farid were halfway up the hill, aware that something was happening above them, but not quite sure what it was. McGarvey fired a couple of rounds over their heads, and they hit the ground, scrambling for cover. Mohammed was clawing for his pistol. McGarvey turned back to him. "You can still leave here alive."

Mohammed got the pistol out of his pocket, fumbled for the hammer and raised it. McGarvey shot him once, the bullet plowing into his forehead.

Not necessary, McGarvey thought with disgust. Yet this was one killing he knew that he would never regret.

Hash and Farid started firing wildly up the hill, the bullets whining off the rocks all over the place. McGarvey dropped down into the protection of the depression and waited until they stopped shooting.

"Mohammed is dead," he called down to them. He got his pistol and stuffed it in his belt. "I didn't order the missile strike, and I mean you no harm now." He ejected the Kalashnikov's magazine and checked the rounds. There was one in the chamber and seven in the clip. "Go back and tell bin Laden that we can still work a deal. The missiles were a mistake. My government thought I was dead."

McGarvey checked over the rim of the depression. One of the mujahedeen was directly below him, the other had moved back about fifteen or twenty yards to the east. They were trying to box him in, get him in a crossfire. Whatever their previous orders had been they meant to kill him now.

He popped up and fired three shots at the man crouched behind the rocks below him. The other one jumped out of hiding and started up the hill. McGarvey calmly switched aim and squeezed off two shots, the second catching the man in the side, knocking him down. "Goddamnit," he muttered, pulling back. It was senseless.

A silence fell over the defile again, and except for the burbling stream there were no sounds.

"It's only you now," McGarvey called out. He crawled over to Mohammed's body, took the PSM pistol, then crawled back to the rim. "We can stay here and fight it out, or you can go back to the camp."

"I can't do that, mista It was Farid. McGarvey recognized the voice, and he sounded frightened.

"Yes, you can," McGarvey said. He checked the load in Mohammed's pistol. There was one in the chamber, and eight in the magazine. "I didn't want to shoot Hash, but I had no other choice."

"You brought the missiles."

"No, I didn't. My government made a mistake. I was sent here to stop the killing, and we can still do that if you tell bin Laden that I'll make it right when I get back to Washington. Something like this won't happen again. You can give him my word."

"Liar," Farid shouted, and he fired several rounds up the hill.

"Shit," McGarvey said. He rose up and emptied the Kalashnikov on the rocks where the mujahed was hiding then ducked back. "Sooner or later one of us is going to get lucky," McGarvey said. He laid the rifle aside and picked up the Russian pistol. "Since I have the high ground it'll probably be me."

The defile was silent again.

A minute later McGarvey cautiously rose up so that he could see where Farid was hiding. Nothing moved. He rose a little higher, but he still couldn't see any sign of the mujahed down there.

"Farid," he called.

There was no answer.

He swept his eyes across the rocks and path. Hash was still lying where he'd gone down, but to the west McGarvey was just in time to see Farid keeping low and moving fast then disappear over the crest of a hill.