Cross down, p.17
Cross Down, page 17
I gently take his right hand in mine; it’s cool and dry. I lean over, kiss his forehead. “Love you, brother,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Really wish you were out here with me. I’m fighting some complicated stuff and it’s scaring the shit out of me.”
His breathing is slow and measured. Despite all that’s happened to him and to the country, I feel a lightness in my chest at seeing his improvement. I squeeze his hand again. “Gotta run,” I say.
I turn away and there’s a cough.
I whirl around.
His eyes are open.
“Alex?” I ask.
His eyes focus and a slight smile appears. “Big John,” he whispers. “Good to see…”
I go back to his side, hold his hand again; my eyes tear up. “Yeah, well, you better hurry up and get better and get the hell out of here. You won’t believe the bills that are piling up.” I add a stupid joke. “City insurance can only pay so much, Alex, so get your ass to healing and moving.”
He closes his eyes, still smiling, and whispers, “John…the random attacks…I looked into it…not random…how it started. It’s not random…” His voice trails off.
He’s asleep again.
The detective in me wants to shake him awake, find out what the hell he’s talking about.
But his friend won’t do that. His friend will let him sleep and heal.
I kiss his forehead again. Walk to the door. As I leave, one of the men on his security detail says, “Whatever you’re doing, body-bag those sons of bitches for him, will you?”
“On it,” I say.
Chapter
79
Outside the main entrance to the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum on 600 Independence Avenue SW, Sergeant Louise Tempe of the DC Metro Police is watching the group of demonstrators grow larger, and her concern is growing right along with it. The sidewalks outside the entrance are packed with people, many carrying signs. It seems like a mix of the usual nutcases and cranks.
NO MANDATES
EXPOSE THE MOON HOAX
SUPPORT THE NO-EVOLUTION REVOLUTION
Tempe is in charge of this fourteen-officer detail, and truth be told, she’s scared out of her wits. Twice she’s radioed dispatch asking for more backup, and each time, she was told briskly that there were no more officers to be had. She’d wanted to go out here in full riot gear, with visored helmets and protective shields, but her captain shook her head and said, “No, the chief is worried about the optics. He doesn’t want photos showing the force being militarized.”
Well, damn, she thinks, when things go south, there’ll be plenty of photos showing this tiny force being trampled.
The shouting is getting louder. She has ten officers standing back to back in formation, tactical batons in their hands, trying to prevent fighting from breaking out.
She and three others are at the main entrance to the museum, and thankfully, the directors and security managers have emptied the place of tourists, shuttling them out of side entrances, and locked all the doors.
One of her officers, Bailey, steps up to her and says, “Sarge, this is getting out of hand. Can you make another call to dispatch?”
Before she can answer, there are two heavy thumps, the sound beating at her ears and chest, and she thinks, Concussion grenades.
The crowds swirl and shout, scream and yell, and there’s another concussion grenade—thank God it’s not carrying shrapnel—and she sees what’s happening: the grenade explosions are pushing the crowds, like panicked cattle, to the museum’s entrance.
Straight at her.
She stumbles, falls, gets up, is pressed against the stone wall of the building. With her baton, Tempe tries to push back the shouting, yelling, red-faced demonstrators, but it’s like trying to stop an ocean wave with a canoe paddle.
She sees four people in black jumpsuits and black balaclavas pulled over their heads make their way to the locked doors, and there’s quick movement of their hands, and then—bang-bang-bang-bang.
Door charges, Tempe thinks, and the doors are shattered and the crowds roar in approval and move in like a tsunami. Tempe is swept inside; the baton and her uniform cap are pulled away, and hands are tugging at her utility belt, but she keeps a firm grasp on her holstered pistol.
More chants break out, loud and echoing in the main lobby:
“Screw science!”
“No mandates!”
“Moon hoax, moon hoax, moon hoax!”
Tempe is knocked to the floor, and she watches in horror as the crowds go after the displays of humanity’s many achievements in air and space with hammers and crowbars, smashing them off their stands. She tries to get up but is knocked down again, and this time she hits her head hard. Two men are pounding the Apollo 11 capsule with sledgehammers and yelling, “Hoax, hoax, hoax!”
Her last thought before she slips into unconsciousness is What has happened to us?
Part Four
Chapter
80
I step out of the air force aircraft back in Tajikistan, a place I never thought I’d be again in my life. The station looks even smaller and grimmer than before. Just off the runway, several horses are hitched to a long line of rope near three old, battered Humvees, and a large tent is flapping in the breeze. Two tan-colored shipping containers have been converted into sleeping and working quarters, and a garage-size building is topped with antennas and satellite dishes.
A black and oddly shaped air force jet maneuvers its needle-shaped nose around this end of the runway; light gray U.S. Air Force roundels are displayed on the fuselage, and a gray American flag silhouette is on the tail. Sunlight gleams off the forward windows, and the pilot revs the two huge boxy engines. The aircraft speeds down the runway, takes off, and starts climbing, and in seconds it disappears into the light blue Tajikistan sky just above the Pamir Mountains that dominate the horizon in this part of the world.
A few seconds pass.
Boom-boom.
I say to Deacon, “I read in the Post last year that the U.S. Air Force received four test supersonic transport aircraft. And you managed to get one of them to bring us here. Impressive.”
“Yes, I did,” she says, shouldering her rucksack. She starts walking to the main tent.
“That’s one hell of a consulting job,” I say.
“Sure was,” she says. “Just be glad you’re not footing the bill.”
We’re both dressed in traditional local clothing: leather boots, tan trousers, sheepskin-lined coats, and loose brown turbans on our heads. We’re both carrying rucksacks with water bottles, pistols, grenades, and American M4 rifles. A few years ago, if you wanted to blend in here, you carried an AK-47, Russian- or Chinese-made, no difference. But due to an unfortunate chain of events, the Taliban, now in power, had tons of American vehicles, ammunition, weapons, mortars, artillery, and other military goodies.
Deacon goes to the tent and opens a large flap, and the two of us step in onto a wooden plank floor. Topo maps and whiteboards hang from the canvas walls. About a dozen men—all stocky with long hair and beards, wearing a mix of camo and local clothing—look up. Some are sitting around long tables cleaning weapons, others are in front of keyboards, and three are sitting and drinking coffee, legs stretched toward the kerosene heater set in the tent’s center.
An American flag dangles overhead, and a handwritten sign reads: We the unwilling, led by the unqualified to kill the unfortunate, die for the ungrateful.
The nearest man looks at Deacon and says, “Liz.”
“Bobby,” she replies. “Can we talk outside?”
“Love to,” he says. He gets up, pistol holstered at his side.
The other men ignore us as Deacon and I follow him out.
A few yards away from the tent, Bobby digs into a pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a cigarette lighter. He lights one and laughs. “Even on this side of the world, health and safety rules still exist. Can’t smoke inside.” He takes a defiant puff and says, “I didn’t know you were coming until that brand-spanking-new SST was about ten minutes out. What are you up to, Liz?”
“Nothing much, Bobby,” she says. “My friend and I are planning a little cross-border excursion. Shouldn’t take more than two days, tops.”
“You two going alone?”
“A local will be our guide.”
Bobby glances around the small compound. “Looks like your guide hasn’t arrived yet.”
“He’s supposed to show up this afternoon.”
He nods. “Which means at dawn, if you’re lucky. You trust this guy?”
“We’ve used him before.”
“What if he screws with you?”
“Then I don’t pay him,” Deacon says. “And I’ll kill him.”
Bobby smiles. “In that order?”
“Whichever works best,” she says.
He looks me up and down and says, “No offense, but I don’t see how a woman and her tall Black companion are going to fit in with the locals.”
I say, “As her tall Black companion, I’m telling you not to worry your pretty little head about it. We’re just here to do a job, in and out.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You don’t plan to stir things up, do you?”
“Not if we can help it,” I say.
“Do your best not to,” he says. “This tiny outpost of America is on its own. Tajikistan pretends we’re not here, so if you piss off the local Taliban and they decide to come over the border and wipe out this little nest of heretics, there’s not much we can do. We’ve got no military units in theater, and the closest air support is about six hours out. Remember that, okay?”
“Remembered,” Deacon says.
He takes a deep drag on the Marlboro, drops it on the ground, crushes it with his boot, and, with well-trained ease, picks up the butt and strips it.
Bobby says, “Remember this too: You get into trouble over there, we can’t help you. We’re not the cavalry, and we don’t pretend to be. The minute you’re in the ’Stan, Liz, you and your tall friend are on your own. Got that?”
I say, “Thanks for the words of encouragement.”
Bobby turns and walks back to the tent. Over his shoulder, he says, “Glad you took it that way.”
Chapter
81
The sun is starting to set when a man appears in the south, slowly walking our way. First-time visitors to the ’Stan and other nearby countries always mention how slowly the locals move, not knowing that they are on their own time and that men of sixty, seventy, or eighty years of age can keep up a steady pace that leaves twenty-year-old American soldiers panting for breath.
He gets closer and I recognize him as Bibi Ahmadi, a local guide and fixer we used during our last visit. He’s heavily bearded, and he has bright shiny eyes that hide mistrust behind the promise of lots of laughs.
He’s wearing clothing similar to ours, and he carries a small rucksack and an AK-47 over his shoulder. When he reaches us, he bows to Elizabeth and puts a hand to his chest. “Madam Deacon,” he says. He turns to me.
“Sampson,” I say.
“I remember you,” he says. “You are so tall. And so black.”
“And you’re so late.”
Bibi looks at Deacon. “No time for tea?”
She shakes her head. “No, not until we cross the border. I want to cover some ground while there’s still a little light.”
Bibi purses his lips and says, “There’s the matter of compensation. I am still owed money by you. The debt must be settled.”
Deacon looks at our guide and interpreter with cold eyes. “I always settle my debts before I leave. I don’t owe you a thing.”
A slight shrug. “Ah, but there is the matter of your other comrades with the Agency. I provided them with many services—at the risk of my life, I might add—and they left without paying me.”
Deacon says, “Not my problem.”
“It is your problem, because you are with the Agency and their debt is your debt. Fifty thousand dollars in American one-hundred-dollar bills.”
Deacon says, “Not on your life.”
Another slight shrug. “Then here I will stay.”
Deacon and Bibi go back and forth for a while, point, counterpoint. The setting sun is sinking below the Pamir Mountains.
Time to get things moving.
“Hey, Bibi,” I say, interrupting their negotiations. “Here’s what I can do. How about half what the Agency owes you now and the other half when we come back—how does that sound?”
He grins, his teeth worn and brown. Deacon says, “Wait, wait—” Bibi wanders over to me and says, “Yes, most agreeable. Thank you.”
I move my hand to my holster, pull out my Glock, slap his face, and grab the back of his head. I bring up my pistol and shove it into his mouth.
His eyes widen. I say in a calm and clear voice, “In case you haven’t noticed, Bibi, we’re in kind of a hurry. We don’t have time to dick around. We’re not planning to spend any more time haggling with you like we’re at the Pul-e Khishti Bazaar in Kabul. Here’s my proposal. In the chamber of this pistol is a nine-millimeter round, street value in the United States of about twenty-three cents. In your current situation, would you recognize this bullet’s value as satisfying half of your debt?” A slow nod from him. “Glad to hear it. But I’m a suspicious sort, so when I take my pistol away, you’re going to make a pledge that you will safely escort us to the village we’re looking for and that you’ll safely escort us back. Can I get a nod, Bibi?”
He nods again, but his dark brown eyes are expressionless. I slowly remove my pistol, wipe the muzzle end on his jacket, and say, “You’re up, Bibi.”
Bibi coughs and says, “My solemn pledge, Miss Deacon and Mr. Sampson, I will safely escort you to the village you seek, and I will safely bring you back.”
“Outstanding,” I say.
I can’t tell what Deacon is thinking, but she says, “Enough talking. Let’s move.”
I slowly return my pistol to its holster. “Thanks, Bibi, and just so we’re speaking the same language, if at any point I think you’re threatening us, leading us astray, or directing us to a Taliban ambush, I’ll blow your fucking head off. Clear?”
Bibi turns and starts walking south toward the Afghan border, and I guess I’m going to have to make do with that nonanswer answer.
Chapter
82
The moon rises in the east over the Pamir Mountains toward the light of thousands of stars, and we have good visibility as we follow the rocky trail south. I spot the far-off headlights of vehicles traveling on unmarked dirt roads and hear a burst of automatic-weapon fire somewhere in the west.
Deacon says, “Who’s fighting whom?”
Bibi says, “Allah only knows. Perhaps a cousin against a cousin. Or a Taliban unit chasing a National Resistance Front patrol. Or some village having a celebration. This district is controlled by Gul Hazara. He was with the Ministry of Defense in the old Kabul government. We see him, we’ll get all the answers we need.”
The trail disappears into a muddy creek, and we slosh across as quietly as we can, and on the other side, Bibi says triumphantly, “That was the Panj River, my friends. We are now officially in Afghanistan.”
I think, You might be here officially, but we’re not.
He says, “Time for tea, perhaps?”
I say, “Up ahead there, where those boulders are. It’ll give us some cover. Elizabeth?”
She checks her watch. “All right, as long as it’s a quick Afghan tea, not an hours-long British tea.”
The break for tea deep in a tumble of rocks is indeed quick. Our position hidden, Bibi lights a small gas stove, then prepares tea and slices of flatbread spread with cold greasy mutton. I’m not choosy about what I eat, since I still have vivid childhood memories of dumpster-diving for tossed-out food. Once the stove cools and our eyes readjust to the darkness, Bibi puts the stove back in his rucksack.
Deacon checks her watch again. “It looks like we’ll get to the bombed village sometime after dawn. That square with you, Bibi?”
“Yes, it does, Miss Deacon.”
“Then let’s get moving.”
I’m thousands of miles away from home, away from electric lights, warm rooms, flush toilets, and my friends and my Willow. But it’s amazing how my body slips back into what was once routine, humping gear and a weapon along a barely lit and barely there trail, all my senses on alert, looking and smelling and, most of all, listening.
For voices.
For a rock falling on a rock.
For metal striking metal.
Light begins to appear in the rocky east, and I hear it: Bells. Little bells.
We cross a slight rise, and a village comes into view: stone corrals holding sheep and goats, a collection of one-story brick and rock buildings. Smoke is rising up, men are moving about, and little barefoot boys kick a soccer ball so dirty, its white hexagons have blended into the black pentagons.
Two armed men watch us approach with calm, curious, nonthreatening expressions.
“Elizabeth,” I say.
“I know,” she says.
“This can’t be the right village. This village is still alive,” I say. “None of the buildings even have a cracked wall.”
In a sharp voice, Deacon says, “Bibi! Where the hell did you bring us?”
But Bibi doesn’t answer. He starts running away.
I stand there, stunned, but Deacon brings up her M4, puts her finger in the trigger guard—
A man running away.
I slap at her weapon, and it jerks to the left. Deacon lowers the M4.
“You about to shoot a guy in the back for running away?” I say.
