Battlecraft (2006) (9 page)

UNITED STATES EMBASSY

ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

1 OCTOBER

MIKE
Assad enjoyed a special apartment in the embassy building in a secure section on the second floor. This was cut off from the rest of the structure and watched over by a twenty-four-hour interior guard. This was where the embassy staff quartered people like Mike and other incognito persons who were involved in risky and clandestine operations. At other times, contemptible but helpful scoundrels who were useful to American causes were also lodged in the area.

The first thing Mike did when he moved into the residence was take a hot, steamy shower and give his dirty, tangled locks a vigorous shampooing. Having to wear his hair mujahideen style was one part of his undercover assignment the SEAL found particularly distasteful. Next he turned his attention to his body, building up a thick lather of soap to wash away the smell of the al-Mimkhalif camp and the Pakistani jail.

After the grooming session, he sent down to the kitchen for a special meal: two cheeseburgers with onions, tomatoes, and lettuce; French fried potatoes; and a chocolate milk shake. After it was brought up to him, he ate slowly, savoring the taste of the American fare after months of consuming
mahshi
vegetables stuffed with chopped meat,
lubya
beans, and
bamya bil moza
okra.

The next order of business was a complete debriefing from a special CIA supervisor by the name of Sam Paulsen. He and his assistant, Mort Koenig, had mysteriously appeared from some secret location especially to take advantage of having a mole pop out of his hole who had the ability to dive back in. This verbal exchange gave Mike the opportunity to make a complete report since his messages left in the dead-letter drop were by necessity short and limited in number. He began his dissertation with a question. "Who picked up those messages I was sending?"

Paulsen only smiled. "Sorry. Now let's hear all you have to tell us."

Mike was able to give Paulsen a good layout of Camp Talata, names of various leaders and mujahideen, information about the operational status of al-Mimkhalif, and other valuable bits of information that could be shared with the FBI and military intelligence. The only thing lacking was a hard identity of the terrorist group's leadership. These individuals were completely unknown to the West, and it would be invaluable to learn their names, then work out some devious assassinations or kidnappings.

As Mike spoke, Koenig took notes. When the session was over, Koenig closed his notebook and gave Mike a meaningful look. "Your acceptance by al-Mimkhalif makes you one of the most important agents in the antiterrorist clandestine operations."

Mike shrugged. "They probably figured I was killed in that fucked-up raid."

Koenig shook his head. "You can be sure that the bad guys know exactly what happened to you and where you are. But they still don't know
who
you are."

"They think you're a prisoner here about to be sent back to the States," Paulsen said.

"Well, they're wrong, ain't they?" Mike remarked. "Except for being sent back to the States, I mean."

Paulsen checked his watch. "Koenig and I have a meeting scheduled with Rod Barker. We'll be seeing you later. If you recall anything else, jot it down for us."

"Will do."

After they left, Mike called down for another cheeseburger with fries.

.

1600 HOURS LOCAL

THE
two embassy security men, Mulvaney and Wheatfall, took Paulsen and Koenig back to visit Mike Assad in his apartment once again. Mulvaney and Wheatfall had already made sincere apologies to Mike for their less-than-gentle treatment of him as a prisoner. He assured them he hadn't taken their conduct personally, but added that it might be unwise of them to ever show up at the Fouled Anchor Tavern in Coronado, California. Both men took the warning seriously.

When Mike answered the knock on his door, he was surprised to see the quartet of visitors. "Come on in, guys."

They all settled down in the living room and Paulsen gave Mike a careful look. "You seem fit and strong."

"I'm fine," he assured him.

"Are you ready to go back?" Koenig inquired.

"You mean to al-Mimkhalif?" Mike asked. "I was really hoping to be returned to duty with my SEAL detachment. That's what I am, y'know, a SEAL."

"It's understandable you would want to get back to your buddies," Koenig interjected, "and if that's what you want, it will be done. However, as I told you earlier, you're in a unique position that makes you a great asset in this operation. It would take months to replace you."

"A lot of innocent lives could be lost during that time," Paulsen pointed out.

Mike frowned. "I want to report back to my outfit."

"Your country really needs you, Mike," Paulsen said. "Can we ask you to take twenty-four hours to think things over?"

"Well," Mike said, "I suppose, but let me tell you--" He stopped speaking, then took a deep breath. "Aw, fuck it! All right. I'll go back."

Paulsen appreciated Mike's attitude. "You're invaluable to the antiterrorist cause, Mike. Koenig has worked out your escape with Mulvaney and Wheatfall."

"What escape?"

"From the embassy here," Paulsen said. He turned to the other CIA man. "Brief him."

"Right," Koenig said, leaning toward Mike. "You're going to leave here within a half hour with Mulvaney and Wheatfall for a ride in the van."

"I wasn't expecting to leave so soon," Mike said. "But what the hell? So brief me."

Koenig continued. "We're going to cuff you, but one of the bracelets has been jimmied so it won't lock. The pretext of the car ride is that you're going to go in front of a lineup at central police headquarters over in Rawalpindi. As a matter of fact, we've made arrangements for just that to keep things looking realistic."

"Understood," Mike said. "Am I to assume that is the time I'll be making an escape?"

"Assume away, my friend," Paulsen said with a laugh.

Wheatfall interjected, "We'll drive you to a city park. There's a political rally going on over there to protest against President Musharraf. So the people in the area are going to be anti-West. It'll be a safe place for you to make your initial run for freedom."

"Right," Mulvaney said. "Once you've entered the crowd, even the local cops won't follow you."

"After that," Paulsen said, "you're on your own. You'll have to make your way back to rejoin al-Mimkhalif. Do you think you can do it without a map?"

"I haven't got much choice," Mike said. "I can work myself west until I steal one."

"Be careful about stealing stuff," Koenig cautioned him. 'This is an Islamic country. They cut off thieves' hands."

"I know the drill," Mike said. "I was brought up Mus
lim ...
sort of anyhow." He stood up. "Hell! Let's get going. I don't want to sit around here and think about what I'm getting into. Okay?"

"We're ready," Wheatfall said.

"Go," Paulsen uttered. "And good luck."

Mike followed Mulvaney and Wheatfall out of the apartment and downstairs to the rear parking area. Before they got into the van, the good side of the handcuff was attached to his wrist. When all was ready, Mulvaney drove them out of the embassy grounds and turned onto the highway for the fifteen-kilometer drive to Rawalpindi.

Within a half hour they rolled into the city and reached the park. The demonstration was going full blast with signs and the loud rhythmic chanting of anti-West political slogans. A couple of dozen nervous policemen stood on the perimeter of the activity, showing no inclination to get any closer.

"Okay, guys," Mike said. "I'm ready."

"Good luck, buddy," Mulvaney said.

Mike leaped from the car and raced across the street past two startled cops. In an instant he had plunged into the crowd. Mulvaney waited until the SEAL had completely disappeared, then turned the van around and headed back toward Islamabad. "I wonder what his chances are."

Wheatfall sadly shook his head. "He's got three hundred kilometers of unknown and hostile territory to travel through. I'd say slim to none."

.

MANILA, THE PHILIPPINES

2 OCTOBER

1730 HOURS LOCAL

THE
traffic was heavy and the going slow, but Commander Carlos Batanza was in a good mood behind the wheel of his two-year-old Honda Accord. The CD player emitted the sounds of Dolly Parton--his favorite female vocalist; he admired her as much for her physical attributes as her musical talent--while the air conditioner fanned out a steady stream of cold air from each outlet.

Patrol Boat 22 had been in port for the previous couple of days undergoing routine maintenance and a minor overhaul of her engines. Mechanics from the base did all the work, so there wasn't much for the crew to do other than stand round-the-clock deck watches. Most of them had taken the week off to stay with their families or in the case of the bachelors, blow off some steam in bars and bordellos after a long period of intense patrolling. Batanza himself hadn't reported for duty that day until noon, and that was only to put his signature on the work authorizations. After that quick and easy task, he had gone to the officers club to play cards and have a few beers with his friends. He had hoped to see Ferdinand Aguilando, but the executive officer had gone to play golf at the exclusive Estrella Country Club outside Quezon City.

The traffic thinned out as Batanza approached the suburbs, and by the time he turned onto MacArthur Boulevard he was able to move along at a steady pace. The only thing that slowed him down was a stoplight, and he came to a halt when it turned red. A Vespa motor scooter came up beside him and halted. Batanza glanced disinterestedly at the two young men sitting on it, then turned his attention back to the light. He didn't see the guy on the backseat pull the MAC-10 from a gym bag.

The bullets streamed out in one long burst as the thirty-two 9-millimeter bullets in the magazine were fired into Batanza's car window. The naval officer was buffeted across the front seat as his flesh and bones were pulverized in the hail of heavy steel slugs. His foot slipped off the brake, and the Accord rolled into the intersection, where an oncoming bus slammed into it.

The Vespa made a quick U-turn, and sped away.

.

RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN

2330 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad wasn't sure where he was. He knew he was in Rawalpindi, but he had gotten turned around in futile attempts to find a way out of the city. He ended up in a rundown area where the locals were obviously hostile toward outsiders. These definitely were not the city's leading citizens. Many of the women were unveiled, and the men glared at Mike as if daring him to start something. He noted a few unfortunate individuals with notches cut in their ears. This was the police method of not only punishing petty criminals, but marking them for easy identification when making roundups of suspicious persons.

Now, instead of concentrating on getting out of the city, Mike was more concerned about getting out of that slum neighborhood to a safer area. He moved uneasily in the dim lights cast from windows onto the dirt street as he tried to find a route that would take him back to lighted surroundings. He caught himself passing a couple of places twice, which meant he had begun to wander in circles. Even the best orienteer in the world would start getting sloppy when in dark urban environs that had a sameness about them.

The four goons seemed to materialize in front of him out of the gloom.

He quickly sized them up as the local tough guys; a quartet of miserable buffoons who shared the same qualities and quantities of stupidity and meanness. They would happily kill him to strip his corpse to get a few rupees for his clothing. They had picked the spot for the murder and robbery with some skill. The street was narrow and long with no side outlets for at least fifty meters. Mike began walking slowly backward so that none could get behind him. They pulled knives from beneath their
chadors,
and grinned.

"Ap khairiyat se hait?"
Mike greeted them in the only words he knew in the Urdu language. Next he tried Arabic.
"Kayfa halik?"

They didn't waste time in launching their attack. The leader, a long stringbean, with lean whipping arms, led his buddies into the fray. Mike sidestepped, and the guy was sent sprawling with a wicked
wakite
karate punch to the kidneys as he went by. A quick
yubi
punch to the second dropped him straight down to the dirt, while a vicious
marui
kick knocked the third over on his back. The fourth, who had been bringing up the rear, wisely kept charging, jumping over his prostrate buddies and going down the street to disappear into the darkness.

Mike stopped long enough to take a long, calming breath, then gathered up the three knives. He chose the best to keep, then threw the others up on the top of the nearby mud huts.

He quickly left the scene in case there were backup robbers or the fourth guy returned with the rest of the gang. He walked rapidly and quietly away until discovering a street that led out into an open area that smelled like a garbage dump. He found the remnants of a mud wall to hide behind, and settled down to wait for daylight.

.