Читать книгу Force Lines - Don Pendleton - Страница 7

“They’re here.”

Hamal Amarshar acknowledged his lieutenant’s grim pronouncement with a flip of the half-eaten oblong date, plunging it into the fire barrel before taking up his AK-74. The sudden current of tension through the cave told him his fighters were braced for the worst, whereas he had to maintain, at the very least, the appearance that he anticipated the best of all possible news. Had there been a significant boost in numbers of Americans or a noticeable upgrade in their hardware, he would have been forewarned, his scouts in the hills keeping the vast wasteland at the eastern edge of the Dasht-e-Kavir under constant surveillance for those on the other side foolish enough to stray outside the arrangement.

He briefly pondered the words of the man who called himself Black Dog, spoken at their first meeting.

“Hey, if I wasn’t here to deal straight with you, my friend, if I wanted your scalps in a bag as trophies—and collect enough bounty on your hides in the process that would set me up for my golden years—it would be no large feat for me to bring down a Tomahawk or a bunker buster or two on your heads.”

That much may well be true enough, he supposed, having already done the math in terms of geography, as best he could, without, that was, the advantage of the enemy’s high-tech wonder toys. Their hideout was a dozen or so meters up, weathered out by time and the cruelty of the desert in the side of a low-chain of rock that had aeons ago broken off from the Payeh Mountains. Between U.S. Navy warships stationed in the Gulf of Oman, roughly seven hundred kilometers due south—with Kabul about eight hundred kilometers east as the eagle flew in what was a major surrounding area of occupation by the enemy—there would be enough cruise missiles and fighter jets on hand and within striking distance to blow him to Paradise—or seal him up in the side of the mountain.

Amarshar considered both the moment—hopefully the gift his guests would come bearing, as promised—and the future. The Iranian listened to the rumble of engines, the squeal of timeworn brakes, saw the thinning spool of dust that rose from the floor of the wadi, as doors opened and closed and shadows began to filter up through the gritty sheen of harsh sunlight. It was a bizarre affair, to understate the matter, this striking a bargain with the devil, but an alliance that placed him at the crossroads of destiny. Just what the future promised—both immediate and long term—remained to be seen.

He struck a pose of calm defiance, legs splayed, assault rifle cradled across his chest as they filed in. He restrained the smile when two of them stepped forward, holding the large black box by thick straps before they carefully set it down in front of him. At the risk of appearing too eager, Amarshar took his time, scouring the faces, hidden behind dark sunglasses and partly swathed in keffiyahs that matched their buff-colored fatigues. It was either a testament to their courage, he thought, or their own greed and ambition that Black Dog and his armed canines even dare stray across the border. They were U.S. special operatives, was about all he could say, and that came from two former SAVAK agents who had originally come to him with the proposal to do business with the Devil.

Amarshar watched as Black Dog, the M-16/M-203 combo pointed at the ground, waved over his shoulder. Three operatives stepped forward and deposited black nylon bags on the ground, then fell back, hard, sun-burnished faces wandering over the Iranians hugging both sides of the cave.

“The CD was left with your SAVAK buddies back near the border,” Black Dog said in near-perfect Farsi that drew a few eyes of admiration mixed with suspicion from the newer warriors.

Amarshar felt the scowl harden his features at what he considered no less than a breach of contract, a grotesque inconvenience at best. He gestured for his men to open the merchandise all around. “Without the operating instructions, then what you brought me is useless,” he said.

“Just a precaution, you understand, until we’re safely back in Afghanistan.”

“A precaution? Or…”

“There’s no ‘or.’ If you don’t like it, you have a radio, call one of them, if you’re worried. The operating procedures are so basic, your people could walk you through it in under two minutes.”

True enough, perhaps, and he wanted to openly question that, but he was turning his stare toward the merchandise as two of his warriors knelt beside the black box. Amarshar blinked twice at the strange insignia painted on the lid.

As he took a step forward, bending at the neck, he thought at first it was some kind of joke. Then he began to slowly discern what it was he thought he saw. Those were four faces of what appeared a lion, a human, a calf and an eagle, staring him back. Only half of each face was connected to the next creature, so that they were four distinct faces but appeared as one. Surrounding them were what, at first glance, appeared to be six wings above and beneath each face—twenty-four in all, he counted upon further scrutiny—and circling them, with the faces appearing to come straight out of a roiling cloud of fire, with numerous black dots all over the faces, which he supposed passed for eyes.

Amarshar looked at Black Dog who, adjusting his shades, simply said, “They would be the Four Living Creatures you’re gaping at.”

“From the Christian Bible,” Amarshar said as he felt several pairs of eyes look his way, puzzled. “The Book of Revelation, I believe.”

Black Dog smiled. “Give the man a gold star. Supposedly they surround the throne of God. The Four Living Creatures, the strongest, wisest, swiftest and most noble.”

“And which would be you and your men?”

“I didn’t say that. You did.”

“And they represent, as I recall, the coming of the Day of Judgment?”

“I believe your Koran holds some similar version regarding the Day of Reckoning.”

“Indeed. Where the unbelievers will be separated from the faithful and cast into a lake of fire for all eternity.”

“Something like that, if, that is, you choose to believe.”

“I take it you believe in something else.”

“I believe in what I can see and touch in the here and now. Like money—for starters.”

“Ah, but, of course. You wish to be like your Donald Trump perhaps.”

“Not hardly. I’m all man, all warrior. I don’t need to hide behind money or flaunt it because I have nothing else going for me.”

“I see. Still…this insignia of the Four Living Creatures…”

“Hey, I couldn’t tell you exactly who did the artwork, but mine is not to question my own higher and invisible authority.”

Amarshar wanted to push the matter, certain the infidels were trying to warn him about personal doom, but sensed the sudden elevation in tension before one of his men, staring at the keypad, demanded to know the access code. As one of Black Dog’s operatives began to rattle off numbers and one of his lieutenants punched the sequence into a personal digital assistant, barking at him to slow down, Amarshar watched two of his men zip open the other nylon bags. Long slender tubes of gunmetal gray displayed, Amarshar stared at the eyeless face of Black Dog. In the corner of his eye, noting the bubbled helmets and spacesuits being hauled out and unfolded, he said, “I hope you’ll understand if I contact my men first and confirm what you have told me.”

Black Dog looked set to curse as his lips parted to bare clenched teeth. “Yeah, okay. But make it quick.”

Amarshar shut down an image of this man tied down and going under the heated blade of a knife that would skin him alive. The unmitigated arrogance of the infidel never failed to both amaze and enrage him, but he maintained an even tone as he said, “Then you’ll understand, also, that I have some concerns regarding what you have delivered.”

Black Dog scowled. “And they would be?”

“It is my understanding that the agent before us,” Amarshar said as his lieutenant finished punching in the last numbers on the keypad and he heard a soft click that told him the lid was unlatched, “may not be as potent as you have previously indicated.”

“How’s that?”

“High explosives tend to incinerate the agent before it can be fully, effectively dispersed.”

Black Dog chuckled, glanced over his shoulder at his men as if he were stuck in the presence of a fool.

Amarshar bristled, his grip tightening around the assault rifle. “You find what could potentially prove a colossal waste of money on my part amusing?” he growled as one of the operatives, his cheek swollen with chewing tobacco, spit on the ground.

“Fear not. The charges have been shaped—engineered, if you will—to prevent just what you fear from happening. What you’ll get is a muffled pop, not much more than a smoke bomb going off, but with just enough force to disperse the agent in a vapor that is nearly undetectable to the naked eye. As advertised, I may add. Now, before your men there,” he said as Amarshar noticed the lid opening to reveal two neat rows of what appeared to be aluminum canisters, “start fooling around with that stuff like it’s nothing more than a handful of dung patties, I suggest you make that call, so me and mine can be on our way. One more thing.”

Amarshar turned as one of his men hustled forward with the portable sat link. He held out a hand, a silent gesture that stopped the warrior in his tracks.

“For the full desired effect, I suggest you figure out which way the wind is blowing before you go lobbing around those canisters.” Black Dog chuckled. “And I’d strongly urge jumping into one of those HAZMAT suits before you go much further examining that merchandise. They’re sealed up good with some state-of-the-art alloy I’ve never heard of, but you never know.”

Amarshar shook his head at the men peering his way. They stood quickly, nearly jumping back two or three feet as if they’d just stumbled onto a nest of vipers.

“That’s right, jump back, Jack. That stuff,” Black Dog said, “is virulent enough to maybe kill every man, woman, child and camel in this country. And, once again, my Iranian friend, that’s just as advertised.”

“So you had previously mentioned. Which leads me to my next concern. What about the vaccine?”

“Well, as I also previously mentioned, once my own agenda is accomplished you’ll get your magic fix.”

Amarshar snorted. “You’ll forgive my suspicion and my impatience in that regard, being as I have already delivered into your hands fifteen of my own warriors.”

Black Dog had to have sensed he was stepping toward the edge of an invisible precipice as he glanced at the armed Iranians taking a step or two closer to his left flank. “Take it easy. You’re asking me when will it happen?”

Amarshar glanced at his men, smiled. “The man is a mind-reader,” he said.

Black Dog’s voice turned to glacier ice as he said, “Soon. It will happen real soon. That’s about all I can tell you. So, I would suggest you keep in touch with your chat room in Mashhad and inform them they’ll want to stay glued to al Jazeera for breaking news.”

Amarshar paused, fighting down his rising anger, wondering just how far he should push this contest of wills. He nodded, grunted, hoping both the gesture and noise came across as a man in charge but who could accept the enemy’s terms in a show of mercy. In truth, he found himself trusting the infidels even less than their first meeting, even less certain now which direction precisely the future as he envisioned it would take, and what that future was. Yes, they were on his hallowed ground, such as it was, they had come to him via cutouts, granted, and he had agreed, more or less, to their terms, but…

But what?

Was he afraid for his own personal safety, now that they had delivered what they had promised, at least in terms of the agent? That much made sense, as he considered how they were holding out on what could eventually prove the ultimate lifesaver, if and when, and where and how he chose to release the agent, and on whom.

Amarshar decided to let the immediate future take care of itself, one way or another, and snapped his fingers for the sat link to be brought to him.

“CRYING RACISM has become the hoped-for trump card of the coward.”

“Who you callin’ a coward!?”

“The race card has become the last refuge of the wicked and the guilty in this age of spineless political correctness and where near everyone in this society seems to be running around bewailing how they are victims of even the smallest perceived slights.”

“Who you callin’ wicked!? Who you callin’ guilty!?”

“You dare on national television inquire about cowardice? You dare ask about wickedness and guilt?”

And Jason Hall groaned, more out of pain from the increasingly persistent nausea and burning knots in his guts than revulsion over the fireworks just getting touched off on “The Bigger Picture.” Some other night, and the former U.S. Marine would be front and center, planted in his easy chair, glued to the television set for the full hour as the moderator, Jim Bright, danced through his charade as peace-maker while upholding his image, the modern King Solomon on the side of right and just, as he nightly self-anointed his role before lighting the fuse to loose cannons on both sides of the political fence. Or, in this instance, lobbing grenades down both sides of the racial-social spectrum.

For another few moments, Hall watched, despite his best intentions. As usual, the thought occurred to him that America had become a land of endless, needless babble, ranting and raving, on and off the television. Fanning the flames of division and hostility by rumor, gossip, detraction and slander, not to mention who could shout the loudest, had become something of a national sport, so much so that it was a rare piece of pure gold when Hall stumbled across one man in a thousand of civil tongue. As a decorated war hero Hall’s personal creed was, “Speak little, endure all.”

Ah, but where to be found such a pillar of decency and courage these days? he wondered. True, it was perhaps easy enough for him to keep in fine-tuned character, living as he did, alone, at the east edge of Flathead Lake, far removed from the bustling tourist traps at Polson and Bigfork. The two-story stone-and-wood home had been built from scratch, due in no small part to his father’s inheritance. No circling buzzard where inheriting the hard-earned life savings of blood was concerned, and unlike several roustabouts he’d known from the service and who had squandered the small fortunes of inheritance on fast-and-loose living, he had charted another, and what had looked to be a wise course.

A personal crusade, in fact, he anticipated would any night now bring the wolves baying to his doorstep.

Hall listened to the wilderness beyond the deck overlooking the placid waters. He thought he heard something, a faint, distant noise that wanted to set off warning bells in tried-and-true instincts. Anything—man or beast—could be out there, he knew, both real and mythical. Something like 128 miles of wooded shoreline, Flathead Lake was the biggest body of fresh water his side of the Mississippi. Rumors abounded in these parts about the Flathead Nessie, in fact locals dedicated lengthy cult ceremonies to this alleged relative of the Loch Ness Monster, though no one had yet to make a sighting of the creature, much less catch even a fleeting shadow of the thing on film.

He shut down his laptop, picked up the Colt Commando assault rifle leaning against the side of his desk, but didn’t budge from his chair. He reached for the remote control, one eye and ear still trained on “The Bigger Picture,” the thought crossing his mind that he was daring fate by not scrambling to his feet, malingering as he listened to the verbal Hellfire barrage.

They were here.

What remained to be seen was exactly who “they” were.

The shorter version of the M-16, bought at a local gun show and modified by his own hand for fully automatic, was up and leading his charge a second before the light show hit the roof. Braking in midstride, he didn’t hear the familiar whirlwind of rotor wash until a few heartbeats later.

Somehow he moved and found the gas mask at the edge of the desk, tugged it on. The suddenness and sheer audacity of the attack told him nothing less than black ops were hitting the roof, as he made out the running drumbeats of combat boots above. Squinting, he slipped the open nylon satchel around his shoulder, the bag stuffed with spare clips and an assortment of flash-bang, tear gas and fragmentation grenades he’d likewise recently collected across a state that had proved itself an arsenal that could just about match anything the United States armed forces had on hand. The rotor wash finally descended, full blast in his ears, providing nasty silent penetration, as it all but covered the enemy’s moves.

At least by sound.

Three, then four shadows, framed against the curtains and armed with subguns clearly nozzled with fat sound suppressors, were crouched and hustling down the deck when Hall hit the trigger and raked the moving silhouettes with a long burst of autofire. For an angry second, as the shadows dropped out of sight, he wondered if he’d only blasted out the windows, shredding fabric. A moment later failure was confirmed as the canister sailed into the study, trailing a fat dragon’s breath of billowing smoke.

He turned about-face, moving for the open door, adjusted his body to hose down the visible armed breaching point to his left wing, thinking about cover, when he sensed their approach from the living room.

Hall had to get the truth out to the world at large. It was something to fight for.

And he would do it his way, the Jason Hall version.

He determined the entertainment stand with stereo and giant speakers made for as respectable cover under the circumstances as he could hope for. He was delving into his war bag for a frag bomb, swinging his aim toward the living room and capping off three or four rounds when something speared deep into his left arm.

He held on, shooting for the ceiling on the fall, bellowing out a curse even as he knew he was finished.

It could have been two seconds or two hours, but he felt the mask ripped off, the weapon and war bag stripped away by angry hands.

So much for his way.

Shadows and voices swirled around him as Hall stared through the mist.

“Where did you find it?”

“Behind his Bible, where you said it would be, sir.”

The CD. They knew, but somehow he’d already suspected as much. Given the sudden disappearance of the others, recalling before their vanishing acts their own dire predictions and suspicions, how all of them were aware what the defenders of national security were capable of…

He was shuddering up on an elbow, ready to fire off a battery of questions when the fever seemed to balloon behind his eyes like a living fire, a sickness so sudden and shocking it was all he could do to manage to hold back the greasy spears of molten liquid ready to burst, one end to the other orifice. He fell on his back, outstretched in a sloppy crucifixion, a groan of pure misery floating away into the white light.

They were still talking, when he made out a pair of black boots and matching pants, heard a lighter clacking, smelled the cigarette smoke. Something then rattled and was dumped on his chest. It was his rosary.

“You’ve got about thirty minutes before what’s in your bloodstream burns out your brain, ten minutes, unfortunately, before you’re swimming in your own waste. Still, that’s plenty of time, Mr. Hall, pain and all the evil filth about to spill out of you aside, to say all five decades before the end.”

Hall looked at his tormentor as a stream of smoke funneled his way from the hole of the mouth behind the black hood.

“Who are we, you ask? You wouldn’t believe me, if I told you. Why are we here, you ask? Well, Mr. Hall, you should have kept your mouth shut, but a few of your jarhead buddies found that out the hard way, but I’m sure you’ve already figured out as much when you discovered your Web sites zapped then began your nightly armed recon around this stretch of Flathead Lake. Yes, you guessed correctly. You have been under constant surveillance. Okay, moving on. Instead of you accepting a chance to expiate your own guilt and treason, you turn down a reasonable offer to work for your country on a classified counter-bio warfare project, but you decided to stick to your lingering rebel nature. It wasn’t enough you came home from the first Gulf War and incited the whole of the U.S. Senate and Congress about what you thought you and a lot of other vets had fallen ill from over there.”

“You’re going to kill me because I told the truth?”

“The truth was, more or less, already out there, Mr. Hall. Pyridostygmine was supposed to have been a vaccine to prevent the effects of any nerve gas Saddam might have thrown at the troops. Then some snippy Congressman whose panties you got all twisted up did some investigating—or more to the point—had somebody else do the work for him, and he comes out claiming before God and the whole world to hear that somehow the vaccines were contaminated by the AIDS virus. Just to clue you in, the so-called Gulf War Syndrome bore, more to the truth, similarities to the West Nile virus, but the AIDs claim was what got the hue and cry sounded.”

Bile squirted up Hall’s throat. The fog was thickening in his eyes, or had he been hit by another wave of smoke? He struggled for breath that felt like flames in his throat as he said, “We were used as guinea pigs.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If you were test subjects, then let’s say it was for a just cause, being as Gulf One may have been the first time our troops were threatened by the mass deployment of chemical or biological weapons. In other words, our side needed to know something in order to engineer a preventive measure. Unfortunately, the experimental vaccine didn’t pan out as hoped. But, your mouth, that was strike one.”

“Men who fought for this country died…”

“Strike two was refusing the offer. Strike three was putting out on the Internet to all your former comrades-in-arms and any other conspiracy fruitbasket who would listen to what little you thought you knew but which, by your crusade, might have well placed national security at grave risk nonetheless.”

“So I die. You can’t kill us all.”

“And that would be you blustering it out until the bitter end?” The black hood chuckled. “Now then. What’s killing you, you ask? To my knowledge—which, I may add, in this particular field is extensive—there are fifty-one known toxic warfare agents.” He shrugged, smoked, then quickly added, “Actually there are sixty-five, but that’s when I count those agents not even those in the sanctified realm of U.S. intelligence know about between our side, the Russians, several Mideast terror orgs and North Korea. But that’s another story. Anyway, you have been stricken with, you guessed it, an experimental agent that is formed from the recombinant DNA of seven toxins. Botulin, anthrax and dioxin which, as you so boldly put out there, is an ingredient used in pesticide and which you believe was what caused GWS. But these are three of the seven you would be most familiar with, I’ll leave the others to your imagination.”

Hall watched as the black-clad executioner rose, staring at his watch.

“You have about twenty-five minutes now, Mr. Hall. Have a nice journey.”

Hall watched the man as he stepped past before he was swallowed up into the white light.

He wanted to be angry over this treason, murdered, no less, by agents of the very government he had fought and killed for, outraged, terrified he was minutes away from dying…

But felt a calm peace settle over him. Still, this was no way for a warrior, he thought, to die, as he felt the first wave of white-hot pain knifing from head to toe. Still, there were those out there who knew something about the compound, who believed, and whom, he was sure, could count on to spread the truth. Or would they? Were there any even left to talk?