The Fourth War (35 page)

Lyangar Airfield
Southern Tajikistan

The U.S. Army Rangers, five men in all, climbed through the broken window at the back of the hangar and gathered around Peter and Colonel Bradley. The solders wore thin body armor but no helmets, and were dressed in black-and-gray uniforms, subdued name tags, no rank, and no U.S. insignia. Their faces and hands, even their palms and eyelids, were camouflaged black, and out here, in the open, they moved with exceptional care, their heads were on a constant swivel, their eyes constantly darting here and there.

Outside, there was the sound of occasional gunfire as the other Ranger team routed the last of the al Qaeda soldiers. Most were already dead. A few had slipped away, disappearing into the night, sliding into the shadows, leaving everything, including their weapons, behind.

As the men gathered around him, Peter got right to the point. “What have we got as far as comm?” he demanded.

A black sergeant, the team leader, stepped forward. “We've got a SATCOM, but it would take us awhile to hook up.”

“What about a communications link with a Predator?”

“Nothing up there, Peter. We weren't assigned any recon for this op. There's an awful lot going on across Asia, and everyone with a uniform and a pulse is looking for the war-heads right now. This rescue is a pretty low priority, I'm sure you understand.”

Peter swore, even though it was what he expected to hear. “Alright,” he said. “Set up the satellite phone. Get a call to Mother. Tell them the op was a success.”

The communications specialist separated himself from the group to set up the phone.

“Okay, boss,” the team leader said. “Let's get your crap and get out of here.”

“Can't,” Peter answered, “we've got more work to do.”

The team leader didn't understand. “I thought this was a straight search-and-rescue?” he said.

“It was. Now it isn't.” Peter took a small breath and pulled the Ranger aside. “We think the warheads might be near,” he explained.

“Here!”
the Ranger hissed.

“Yes. And we've got someone downstairs who knows where they are.”

The Ranger shook his head. “Peter, are you saying—”

Peter put his hand on the soldier's shoulders and pushed him toward the hangar door. “Gather your teams,” he said. “Give me a few minutes. Keep your men away.”

The Ranger stared at him a moment, then nodded his understanding and turned slowly for the hangar door.

Bradley stepped forward. “What guidance regarding combat interrogations does your field manual provide?” he asked in a whisper.

Peter frowned. “Not much. It's intentionally ambiguous, leaving open the option, you know, depending on the situation. The local commander has great authority.”

Bradley rocked on his boots. In his mind, the situation was extraordinarily clear. “You know what we have to do!” he said calmly.

The CIA officer nodded. “It won't be easy, you know that.”

“I don't care any more. Think of the consequences! New York or D.C., or Middletown, USA.” The colonel paused and wiped his sleeve on his mouth. “No, it won't be pleasant. We are not that kind of men.”

The comm specialist called out as he motioned to Peter. “Your boss wants to talk to you,” he said.

Peter shook his head.

“He says
Now!
” the Ranger exclaimed.

Peter stared at Bradley a moment, then turned and ran to the satellite phone and grabbed the receiver. “Yeah,” he said quickly into the phone.

“You got them,” Washington said, great relief in his voice.

“We got
him,
” Peter answered. “The captain is dead.”

Peter could hear Washington click his teeth. “Okay, Peter,” he said after a pause. “Now get out of there.”

“Can't do that, boss. We've got a couple things left to do.”

Washington stuttered in objection, his voice rising in anger, but Peter didn't wait to listen. He disconnected the line.

Lowering the receiver, he stared at the floor then turned to Bradley and nodded. “Let's do it,” he said, a grim look on his face.

Peter and Bradley walked into the bloody cell. The smell of bowels and death pervaded. Angra stared arrogantly at his enemies as they entered the room. He was angry and humiliated, but he was not afraid. He knew they wouldn't kill him. Americans, they weren't like him, and he was happy for that. “Untie me,” he muttered in a loathing tone. “Untie me! I demand that you treat me with respect!”

Bradley stared at him, a deadly cold expression in his eyes. Angra saw the dark look. Never in his life had he seen such a look of resolve.

And for the first time he wondered.

Perhaps he was wrong?

“Untie me!” he commanded, mustering his most arrogant tone. “I demand…” His voice trailed off.

Bradley lifted the handgun and took a step toward Angra. The general watched him carefully, then lowered his voice. “I know you won't use it. Your mind games will not work on me!”

The colonel frowned, lowered the gun, and looked away, then wiped a bead of sweat from his face. He glanced quickly to Peter, who nodded, then lifted the weapon again. Without so much as a word, he fired a shot into the general's leg.

The shell shattered the kneecap and blew out the entire bone in the leg, shattering the muscle and sinew into one bloody mess. The Arab cried like an animal, shrieking in pure agony.

The colonel bent toward him and grabbed him, holding his face in his hands, forcing him to look at him while covering his mouth. “Listen to me!” he sneered. “We will not, we can not, sit here and see the world destroyed! You've hidden the warheads and we
have to know where they are!
You have ten seconds to tell or you get another shot in the leg. And believe, Mr. Angra, you will run out of appendages before I run out of shells! Now I want you to tell me. Where are the warheads? We simply
must
know.”

Lyangar Airfield
Southern Tajikistan

It only took minutes to find out what they needed to know.

For all his arrogance and bluster, for all his experience in dealing out pain, for all the horrible things he had seen and the cruel things he had done, for all the times he had laughed when men had cried near the end of their lives, Angra proved to be a most talkative prisoner when the pain was on him. The moment he was convinced that Bradley was not going to back off, he talked and he talked, providing accurate and astonishing detail.

The warheads were in a convoy heading through the Pamir Pass, after which they would turn west to the Tajikistan city of Khorugh. There they would be parceled out to twenty-four suicide teams. By midmorning they would be scattered and on their way for destinations throughout the Arab world. And each team had a target somewhere in the West.

When Angra finished explaining, the two Americans were utterly terrified.

Angra saw their fear, which brought great joy to his face, and he smiled eerily through his pain, taking delight in their fright. “You don't have time!” he choked, his voice hissing in pain. “There's not a thing you can do! Go ahead, call in your bombers! They will be too late!”

Bradley stood over the general. “Do you realize what you have done?” he said, his voice sad and exhausted and extremely fatigued. “Do you realize how many people will die? And not only Americans, but Arabs and Muslims as well!”

Angra stared at him blankly. He didn't care any more. The truth was, he and his brothers had quit caring a long time ago.

Bradley swore, then turned to Peter and nodded to the door. The two men climbed the stairs and walked into the hangar.

“He's right,” Bradley said, his voice husky with fear. “We don't have time to launch an attack. We've got the U.S.S.
Reagan
off the Gulf, but it's a two-hour flight. Cruise missiles can't attack moving targets and choppers are hours away.”

Peter glanced at his watch. “The warheads will be in Khorugh within an hour,” he said. “And once the warheads make it to Khorugh, there's not a thing we can do. They will slip behind a wall of silence, anonymity, and animosity we will never break through. Walking into Khorugh is like going back to the dark ages. I've been there, Shane, it's a bizarre universe where the United States is hated more than their children are loved. We could search for ten years and never find the warheads or the suicide teams.”

Bradley stared miserably at the floor, then glanced at the MiG.

He only had one idea.

It was desperate. It was ugly. It was literally suicide. And Peter was going to hate it and would try and stop him no doubt. But unless he had another plan there was simply no choice.

He turned back to Peter. “Do you have any suggestions?” he pleaded. “Come on, you're the hero! Think for me, baby. You've got to have something up there!”

Peter was quiet as a painful look crossed his face. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “It's not like…you know, we just can't order up a miracle out of thin air.”

That was it, then. Bradley nodded. The decision was made. “It's okay,” he said slowly, looking suddenly forlorn. He seemed to deflate, his shoulders sagging as he took a deep breath.

Peter took a step toward him. “What are you thinking?” he asked, his face tight with concern.

Colonel Bradley ignored him as he looked around and said, “I need a map. And your men. They're going to have to help.”

Peter looked at him, puzzled, then motioned to one of his soldiers, who pulled out a detailed topographical map from his thigh pocket. Bradley grabbed the map and studied it, locating their position, then tapped a spot just a few miles to the south. “See this?” he said, tapping the map again. “Here, where the road intersects at the crest of this hill? There's a small open field, maybe fifty meters south of where the roads form a V.”

Peter stared at the map. “I see it,” he said.

Bradley thought as he talked, trying to remember the scene in his mind. “The field will be easy to recognize,” he continued, “one side is lined with heavy trees on the north, and the south end rolls over the crest of the hill. Can you see it, Peter, here, where I'm touching the map?”

Peter nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, I see it,” he said.

“Think one of your Ranger teams can find it?”

“Of course they can.”

“How long would it take them to get up there?”

Peter glanced toward one of the heavy army trucks parked outside the hangar. “Five minutes,” he answered, “if we use one of those things.”

“Okay then,” Bradley said, “let's get some guys up to that field.”

“But why?” Peter shot back.

“That's where we jettisoned the B-2 warheads before we landed at Lyangar.”

Peter's face remained blank. He didn't understand.

“We'll send out a team for the warheads,” Bradley instructed. “Then I need a couple other guys to help me with that jet.” Bradley nodded to the MiG sitting near the hangar wall.

Peter hesitated. “You're kidding!” he answered, a raspy catch in his throat. He was beginning to guess what his friend had in mind.

Bradley turned toward him. “No, Peter, I'm not kidding. Here's what we're going to do. We get one of the jettisoned nuclear bombs from the Stealth. We strap it to the MiG, and I go after them.”

Peter cried in frustration, “No! Your bombs are safed. There is no way to detonate them once they've been jettisoned!”

“Yes, Peter, that's right, there's no way to override the firing mechanism and detonate the bomb. But I don't need a nuclear explosion, not for what I'm trying to do. Remember Peter, the core of the B61-11 is made up of a thousand tiny pellets of high grade uranium, each of them emitting enough radiation to kill a hundred men. The B61-11 isn't a fire-cracker, it's a very serious bomb, and the uranium inside it is the purest nuclear material in the world. Can you see it, Peter, can you see what I'm going to do! If I can ram my jet into the convoy, it will create an enormous blast. The pellets inside my warhead will be scattered for miles. In addition, I'm almost guaranteed to penetrate some of the warheads in the trucks. Now think of that, Peter, a MiG flying into the convoy at eight hundred miles an hour—it will be the equivalent energy of a forty-thousand-pound bomb. It will blow my warhead apart, scattering nuclear pellets everywhere. The radiation will be so powerful, every man in the convoy will be dead in two days. And the warheads, the trucks, everything within two miles will be so radiated they'll glow. The area will be a dead zone for ten thousand years.”

Peter stared, dumbfounded. “A dirty bomb,” he said.

“No, not just dirty, it will be a filthy bomb, friend. This would be a thousand times more deadly than anything al Qaeda has ever envisioned. And a high-g impact on the target is all that we need.”

“High-g impact? BS! What you mean is a crash! You're going to go out and find the convoy, then fly into it! It's a suicide mission! I can't believe you're even thinking of this!”

Bradley's demeanor stayed unchanged. “If you have another idea, I'd love to hear it.”

Peter remained silent and Bradley glanced down at his watch. “Less than fifty minutes,” he said.

Peter's face grew pale and he stepped back, his eyes burning, his lips turned down in pain. “Shane, I won't let you.”

The colonel took a quick step toward him. “Tell me, then, Peter, what are we going to do? If you stop me we fail, and a million people will die. What am I…who are you…what is any one man compared to that! We've got to do something and we've got to do it
right now!
”

Peter didn't answer. He was speechless and pale. “But if you fly into the convoy—”

“The warheads will all be destroyed. They'll be too hot to handle until our grandchildren are dead. Look, Peter, I know it's not perfect, but what choice do I have!”

Peter turned away quickly and Bradley saw the tears on his cheek. “I won't let you, Shane,” he muttered. “I can't…I won't let you…this is not how we work. I could never forgive you. I could never forgive myself.”

“I don't need your forgiveness. What I need is your help!”

Peter shook, his head hanging, his hands trembling at his side. “You can't…,” he said as he lifted his head. His face was grim and determined, a wild look in his eye.

Bradley's hand moved to the gun he had strapped to his hip. “You
will not
stop me,” he commanded. “This is no time for friendship. This is no time to cry. How many times have you seen a soldier blown apart at your side? How many times have you given an order, knowing some of your men would die? This is no different, and you
will not
stop me. This is business, Peter, business, and you will put your feelings aside.”

Peter swallowed and looked up. “I will not, I can not help you commit suicide.”

Bradley stared at him, angry, then shook his head and turned away from his friend. Running toward the hangar, he commanded in a loud voice, “Rangers! I say Rangers! Come and gather on me!”

Peter watched the soldiers begin to congregate around Bradley, then turned and walked away from his men.

It only took Bradley a couple minutes to gather and organize the teams. The first team set out in two of the four-wheel-drives. The heavy trucks tore down the runway and crashed through the fence. Turning on the road, they headed south toward the mountain where the B-2 warheads had been dropped.

Another team of Rangers then moved to the MiG. Pulling the chocks, they leaned against the landing gear to push it out of the hangar.