Nefarious (The Blackwell Files Book 1) (10 page)

CHAPTER 24

Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan

A piercing, buzzing sound penetrated the heretofore-serene darkness. Alton sat up and switched off the alarm. He immediately checked his text messages. David had returned a mere hour ago and had gone to bed. The others wouldn’t arrive for a few more hours. He would refrain from waking David until then.

Three hours later, Alton rocked David’s half-dressed form back and forth. “Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” he yelled. Normally, David had to drag himself out of bed, but this day he popped up like a prairie dog, ready to continue the search for Fahima.

“Whoa there, partner,” reassured Alton. “No need to hurry. We have a team briefing in thirty minutes.”

“Team briefing…?” asked David, still shaking the cobwebs from his sleep-deprived mind.

“Yes, the team searching for Fahima and Hadir will gather at one-thousand hours in Alpha building’s main briefing room.”

David approached the meeting location five minutes early, fully energized and ready to begin a new day’s work.

“Okay, let’s get ready—” began David as he rounded the doorframe and entered the room.

David froze to the spot, his words dying in mid-sentence. A smiling Fahima stood in the center of the room, while Alton and Mallory exchanged glances and smirked from behind her. Other than appearing slightly disheveled, Fahima seemed to be fine.

“What the hell…?” David trailed off, still in shock. The reality of the moment finally sank in, and he broke into a huge grin. “Fahima!” he exclaimed, advancing toward her.

She also advanced and threw her arms around David’s neck, relief and delight radiating from her face. Unable to contain his joy, David wrapped her in a bear hug and swiveled her from side to side. At the end of the embrace, they detached a little self-consciously.

Still wearing a crooked grin, David asked, “How…?”

“I’ll explain everything at the mess hall,” said Alton, “I believe Fahima is hungry, and we wouldn’t want to put her through any more trials today.”

“Yes,” said Fahima to Alton as she gazed at David and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you. I am very hungry. I have not eaten since yesterday morning.”

The four friends sat down at a table located along the back wall of the mess hall. As Fahima did justice to the ample portions on her plate, Alton recounted her rescue.

“You remember I asked you yesterday morning if you had a double agent with any type of leadership role in Al-Qaeda?” he asked David.

“Of course. I gave you the name of…” he hesitated.

“Mallory knows,” reassured Alton. “She has the necessary clearance. And she worked with me on the plan.”

“Hardly—,” began Mallory.

“In any case,” interrupted Alton, smiling at Mallory before returning his attention to David, “you told me about Zahid Sohal.”

“Right—he has a minor leadership role in Al-Qaeda. He’s not part of the inner circle, but he regularly provides good information.”

“You told me on the condition that I not reveal Zahid’s identity as our agent,” said Alton.

“That’s right,” acknowledged David. “If the insurgents find out he’s working for us, he and his family are dead.” Fahima’s eyes darted from speaker to speaker during the conversation. She was also being told of her rescue plan for the first time.

“So here was my challenge,” said Alton. “I had an Al-Qaeda contact but no cover story which gave him a plausible reason for intervening in this case. He’s located in the eastern side of Kabul and has never visited Gandamak’s Lodge. I had already contacted Mastana—the girl I helped the day of the bazaar blast—to see if she knew of Hadir or Fahima’s whereabouts or had any other way of helping.

“I met Mastana in person yesterday. Shortly after I arrived at the meeting place, she mentioned that her uncle is a member of Al-Qaeda. It was the perfect opportunity. Mastana could drop the name of a legitimate Al-Qaeda leader to her uncle, knowing that as soon as her uncle verified the story with Zahid himself, Fahima would be freed. From Al-Qaeda’s point of view, it would make sense that Fahima would help Zahid with intelligence-gathering. Zahid never visits Gandamak’s himself, so he’d need an informant to pass along information from there. During the meeting with Mastana, I contacted Zahid and filled him in. He was happy to help.

“A nice side effect of this approach is it leaves Fahima free to resume her role at Gandamak’s. Since Al-Qaeda believes she is an informant listening to American conversations, they’d be more suspicious if she
didn’t
return.

“The biggest risk in all of this was that we had no way to communicate the plan to Fahima. We had to count on her resourcefulness and improvisation if Hadir raised any questions about her relationship to Zahid.”

“Yes,” added Fahima, wiping a bit of scrambled eggs off her chin, “I was scared. Last night, I see a girl in the room with the Al-Qaeda men. She is staring at me all the time. When Hadir ask me why I do not say anything about Zahid, the girl nodded at me. I think she is trying to tell me this is the story I should use to leave that bad place. So I…how you say?…
go along with
the story. Then Hadir take me and Tahir to our homes.” She shrugged as if indifferent to the whole episode and scooped up more eggs from her tray.

David whistled and shook his head. “It was perfect,” he said, looking at Alton. “I owe you…so much. How do you come up with these plans?”

It was Alton’s turn to shrug indifferently. “It wasn’t just me. I was concerned that Fahima wouldn’t know how to react when Hadir questioned her about our cover story. Mallory conceived the idea of sending Mastana along with her uncle to the location where Fahima was being held prisoner. Her presence proved to be essential to pulling off the plan.”

Mallory grabbed Alton’s upper arm and—while scolding Alton in general—gave it a good you-don’t-give-yourself-enough-credit shaking. When Mallory finished the admonition, she casually let her hand drop on top of Alton’s forearm. Without moving his head, Alton lowered his gaze to observe the hand she so gently rested on his limb. His mind flashed back to the corner table at Gandamak’s the night of Fahima’s abduction.
In some ways so near…

At last, Fahima finished her meal and sat back in her chair.

“Would you mind if Fahima and I stepped away for a minute?” asked David.

“No, of course not,” said Alton and Mallory in unison, grinning.

“We can leave,” added Alton. He began to stand, but Fahima waved him back to his seat. She and David walked a few paces away and stood facing each other, far from the other occupants of the sparsely-populated cafeteria but within easy earshot of Alton and Mallory.

“Fahima…,” began David, clearly flustered, “I don’t even know how to describe my feelings for you. I should have told you a long time ago…” He looked at the floor for a second, struggling to proceed.

“David,” said Fahima softly, “do you know why I trust the girl last night? Her eyes tell me what she is thinking, that she is my friend. What do you think
your
eyes tell me?”

She laid her palm aside his face and raised herself on her toes to kiss him. The elation flowing from David’s face suggested he might not descend from cloud nine for a solid week, if ever.

“Fahima, I don’t know exactly where we go from here,” said David, “but I know I want to be with you, more than anything.” It was his turn to initiate a kiss, oblivious to everything but the rapture of the moment.

As they separated, Fahima beamed at David. “And I want to be with you, David Dunlow.”

Alton turned to Mallory. “Is this the part where they ride off into the sunset?”

“Yeah—in a tank.” She laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. “This is Afghanistan, after all.”

As David and Fahima continued to talk, Alton felt an indescribable pleasure in witnessing—at last—the new and better unity of the two friends who had admired each other from a distance for so long. Despite their disparate cultural backgrounds, he predicted a happy future for the couple.

Alton glanced at Mallory. She seemed to be as content as he. She turned her gaze to him, and he self-consciously lowered his to the floor, worried that the romantic euphoria was getting to him. For a moment, as he had caught Mallory’s eye, he had believed she would offer a friendly reception to a similar declaration on his part. He flashed back to the time he had first met Mallory, in this very cafeteria. The sunlight had poured into the room from a window behind her, bathing her in an ethereal glow, as if she were an angel come to mingle with mere mortals.

Alton sternly reminded himself that fantasies were no substitute for the truth of his new future, one in which Mallory wouldn’t be interested in assuming a romantic role. The futility of such thoughts jolted him back to reality. Why ruin a friendship by trying to make it more than it could be? He had to remind himself of this repeatedly as Mallory once again gripped his upper arm in delight at the sight of happy couple in front of them.

That evening, Alton called Mastana to share the details of the day’s reunion between David and Fahima. She was overjoyed, not only for Fahima’s release but also for the new relationship between the two friends.

“None of this would have happened without you,” said Alton, “I’m so proud of you. You’re so brave and confident. Now I owe
you
one.”

“No,” replied Mastana. “Before, you save me. This time, I do not save you. I help you save another Afghani.”

“Well, either way, you did a great job. If you can do all this now, at age twelve, I can’t wait to see what you’ll accomplish when you’re all grown up.”

Two Months Later

CHAPTER 25

Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan

Alton’s months in C
2
continued to roll along. Knowing his days in the Army were likely to be limited, he resolved to make the best of his remaining time. He felt grateful for those comrades who had reached out to him in friendship during his deepest despondency. Thanks to them, he had formed new, unexpected bonds in this phase of his life. Those new bonds were gradually providing Alton with a brighter hope for the unknown future that stretched out before him.

As Alton had predicted, the relationship between David and Fahima had flourished. Last week, David had mentioned that Fahima had applied for a US permanent-resident visa, pointing to his friends’ intention to remain together after David’s deployment to Afghanistan ended. Alton felt genuinely happy for them.

Alton continued his physical therapy, now comprised of a single, early-morning workout completed each day before reporting for duty. Despite his diligence, the pain in his limb persisted. He observed with concern the arc of his recovery tapering off. He was inclined to force a continuation of his healing by working harder, but Dr. Dunwoody had warned him that this approach could be counterproductive.

“If you overdo it, you could reinjure yourself,” she had said, “and if that happens, you’ll probably have a more profound permanent injury.”

Mindful of this admonition, Alton was careful to follow the prescribed physical-therapy routine to the letter.

The patience Alton needed to endure the physical demands of his exercise regime was matched by that required to endure Captain Graham, whose antics had not changed.

As he readied his desk for work on a bright morning, Alton spotted Graham advancing and sighed. Graham’s propensity to substitute pomposity for competency had—if anything—grown worse. Graham viewed Alton as a competitor rather than a teammate. Fearful of Alton’s response to overt actions, he didn’t actively sabotage Alton’s work, but he lost no opportunity to disparage it.

Alton bore the attacks stoically, letting his results speak for themselves. Much to Graham’s chagrin, they did, and over time Graham seemed to have become desperate to undermine the person he viewed as his chief competitor for future promotions.

“How’s the hero this morning?” sneered Graham as he passed Alton’s desk. “Are you going to join those of us getting the real work done?” Not expecting a reply, Graham continued down to his adjacent section.

Alton didn’t dwell on the question. He was more concerned with a spike in Al-Qaeda signal traffic. The volume of messages was too much for either squad to decrypt and translate individually, so Alton approached Graham to divide the messages between the two companies.

An hour later, Alton noticed Graham slip away from his desk. The man took a circuitous, unusual route to General Mooreland’s office in an apparent effort to avoid Alton’s desk. Minutes later, General Mooreland made a terse announcement over the camp’s PA system. “This is General Mooreland. We’ve intercepted an Al-Qaeda message. They are planning a suicide-bombing assault on the front gate, to be followed up with ground troops once our wall is breached. All infantry: invoke security protocol echo and report to your defensive positions immediately. All other units report to battle stations. Infantry Bravo Company will deploy its M2s in a defensive perimeter around the front gate’s interior courtyard.”

Alton almost felt sorry for the attacking Al-Qaeda troops. The tripod-mounted machine guns could pack a wallop.

Captain Graham emerged from the general’s office, looking practically jubilant. No doubt he viewed his status as the first person to share the news of the impending attack with General Mooreland as a notch in his belt. Alton shook his head in frustration. Who cared if American troops might die, as long as Graham looked good?

General Mooreland made a new announcement over Delta building’s PA system. “The intercepted Al-Qaeda communication indicated that the attack may be accompanied with mortar fire. Our building is closest to the front gate and therefore in the most danger of being hit. All personnel evacuate to Charlie building at this time.”

Alton admired the efficiency with which Delta building’s occupants responded to the order. He realized the efficiency would leave him trailing. Not wanting to put his troops in danger of the impending mortar fire, he shouted, “Go ahead. I’ll secure the area.” As he struggled to his feet, he felt a nagging sense that something was amiss. For all his bluster, Graham wasn’t a particularly skilled cryptographer. Alton felt strangely skeptical that Graham had managed to decrypt and translate a message of that magnitude so quickly.
Am I the one being jealous now?

To assuage his anxiety, Alton pulled up the batch of intercepted messages he had sent to Graham for decryption. As he scanned the type of encryption used for the first message, his suspicions were instantly raised. Al-Qaeda had known for two months that coalition forces had cracked that code. It was the reason they stopped using it. Why would Al-Qaeda suddenly start using it now, especially for a mission this important?

Alton scanned the subsequent Al-Qaeda communications and grew more concerned as he realized they employed a new, heretofore uncracked code. He spent the next quarter of an hour feverishly working to crack the encryption algorithm of three messages that used this new code, applying his analytic skills as never before. He finally solved the cipher and began furiously decrypting and translating the communications. As his cryptography software translated the last words of the final message, his heart sank. The frontal-attack message was a decoy. The real attack would occur at the camp’s rear wall!

Alton reread the planned assault time in the last message and looked at his watch: Six minutes to go! Realizing he had no chance of explaining this new information to the general in time to redirect the camp’s defensive efforts, he used the code he just cracked to send an encrypted message back to the Al-Qaeda forces: “We’ve been spotted. American troops and snipers are waiting in position at the rear wall. Fall back.”

Alton hoped the message would fool the attackers, but he knew he couldn’t count on its success. What if they didn’t read the message before the attack began? Even if they did, would they have time to relay the message to their troops who by now must surely be massing behind the rear wall? Visions of the explosion in his mobcom van floated through Alton’s mind. He grimly clinched his jaw. If the US lost soldiers this time, it wouldn’t be because of him.
He shouldered his M4 rifle and headed for the door.

For the first time since his injury, Alton broke into a run, heading directly for the site of the impending attack on the camp’s rear wall. He had made it almost halfway there when a white-hot tearing sensation pierced through his injured leg, as though a bullmastiff had somehow bitten him inside the limb without breaking the skin. He grabbed his thigh in agony. In his rush to reach the site of the assault, he had left his cane behind.

As Alton began to despair of preventing the attack, two Marine corporals rounded the corner on their way to the front gate.

“Wait!” screamed Alton. “There’s an imminent security breech on the back wall. Help me get there. I’ll explain on the way.”

One of the Marines lifted Alton’s arm over his shoulder, helping him hobble along.

Between breaths, Alton gasped, “The frontal attack is a decoy. Al-Qaeda insurgents are planning to scale the camp’s rear wall and attack with shoulder-fired rockets and then ground troops. I guess they figured they’d be more successful if they could convince us to mass our defenses on the opposite side of the camp.”

As they made their way to the rear wall, the Marine unencumbered with assisting Alton radioed for additional troops. “Where exactly are we going?” he asked Alton.

“The northwest corner—the motor hall,” Alton replied through clenched teeth, the pain in his leg growing worse each second. He glanced at his watch. It was time for the attack to begin.
Dammit!

They made a final turn around the last building and reached their destination. Alton leaned against the brick motor hall building, gasping for breath. His heart felt like it was trying to tear itself out of his chest, and pain lanced throughout his leg and up into his lower torso. Sweat poured off his face and formed a stream running down his chest and back.

An insurgent with a Yugoslavian M80 rocket launcher bandoliered across his back crested the top of the camp’s rear wall. Still leaning against the motor-pool building, Alton raised his M4 carbine and took aim, trying to calm his pounding heart sufficiently to line up the terrorist in his sights.
Center mass…just aim center mass.
As the terrorist brought the rocket launcher to his shoulder, Alton slowly exhaled and squeezed off a shot, sending the insurgent tumbling backwards off the wall.

Another Al-Qaeda fighter nimbly scaled the wall and alighted atop it in a crouch. Before the terrorist could move again, the Marine to Alton’s left landed a head shot, exploding the top half of the man’s cranium and sending his limp body tumbling forward to the ground in a slow arc. Two more insurgents peered over the top of the wall but ducked back behind it as a fusillade of rounds from Alton and the Marines kicked up a cloud of brick dust.

The trio of soldiers stood vigil, alert for additional enemy forces, but none appeared. Bolts of agony shot through Alton’s leg, and his vision blurred. As the first US reinforcements arrived, he unceremoniously dropped to a sitting position on the ground, nearly unconscious from pain. Through his blurred vision, Alton thought he saw Mallory among the gathering crowd but couldn’t be sure.

General Mooreland and additional troops arrived. The Marines excitedly shared a summary of the battle, while Alton sat in the gravel with his head between his legs, breathing deeply and struggling to maintain consciousness through the blinding pain.

“Deploy four squads of infantry against this wall,” barked the general. “I want an additional infantry company in Bradleys out on the street to mop up what’s left of those bastards.” Several infantry officers began shouting orders.

“Medic!” shouted Mallory, her voice confirming her presence. “Is there a medic here?”

A female staff sergeant with a red cross on a white armband rushed over and began rendering aid. She removed Alton’s ACU shirt and laid him flat on the ground.

“What happened?” asked Mallory. “Are you okay?”

Alton felt strangely at peace. He wished his vision wasn’t so blurred. He would have liked to look at her clearly as they conversed. “It’s the same leg,” he mumbled. “Something… snapped.”

Mallory laid a gentle hand on Alton’s shoulder yet turned her head away from him for a moment. She turned back and murmured, “You’ll be fine. Here comes the stretcher now.” After a pause, she continued, “You know Dr. Dunwoody is going to give you hell for this.”

Alton emitted a single laugh and then winced at the pain it produced.

“I’m sorry—,” began Mallory.

“Don’t be,” interjected Alton, his mind drifting in and out of focus. “Nothing could make me feel better…than your being with me here…right now.”

Mallory turned her head away once again, and the stretcher arrived. The medics expertly lifted Alton onto it and turned towards the hospital. As he was carried away, Alton heard the staccato report of gunshots from the other side of the wall, reminding him of how close the camp had come to being overrun.

After spending a few hours in the camp hospital, Alton returned to his quarters. He had just settled into them when a private brought an order for Alton to report to Delta building that evening to debrief General Mooreland.

Assigned to a wheelchair once again, Alton rolled himself to Delta building at the appointed hour. In addition to General Mooreland, a number of officers as well as Alton’s Signal Bravo Squad soldiers were in attendance. The group crowded around Alton, who quickly recounted the day’s sequence of events to the engrossed audience.

“I can see why you rushed to the back wall,” said Major Kyle, an armor officer on the general’s staff, “but what made you suspicious of the message Captain Graham translated?”

“It employed the same trick the US used against Japan prior to the Battle of Midway Island in World War Two,” replied Alton. “We sent a message to our troops on Midway using a code we knew the Japanese had cracked, specifically to see if they’d bite, which they did. Using that old code for future communications allowed us to feed misinformation about our fleet deployment and was key to winning that battle.”

“But why did you re-read Captain Graham’s work in the first place? Why didn’t you leave like the rest of us?” pressed the major.

Lieutenant Garcia, Alton’s right-hand man, spoke up. “‘Cause we’ve seen Captain Graham’s previous work—that’s why. It sucks.”

Alton held up a hand as the crowd snickered. “At ease, Lieutenant.” He turned to Major Kyle. “The threat was important enough to warrant a second look at the transcribed message. I would expect someone to run the same check on my work for a message as important as this.”

The meeting broke up. As Alton wheeled himself out of Delta building, he saw a figure in the shadows. The figure stepped forward. It was Graham.

“Do you know what it’s like having everyone expecting me to follow in my father’s footsteps?” he asked. “The great General Graham—Desert Storm hero. And here I can’t make it past Captain.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode away.