[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (20 page)

“All right now, you’re free,” he told her, pulling the last barb away from her shirt. Prodding gently, he tapped her away from the fence. Suddenly, she leapt up into his arms.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” he told her.

But it wasn’t, as Junior saw when he turned around.

The four gunmen who’d come across the border were standing a short distance away, their guns pointed at Junior and the girl.

Sometimes the best way to get out of a situation like that is to move boldly and forcefully. There was no way Junior could reach his gun, but he decided that didn’t mean he was trapped.

“We’re going back,” said Junior, taking a step.

“No,” said the tallest of the four men. He raised his rifle, making it clear that he had the girl’s head in his sights. His English had a Bangladesh accent, though to Junior’s untrained ear it sounded a lot like the Indian tongues he’d heard over the past day or so. “You come with us. That is what you will do now.”

“I don’t think so,” insisted Junior, taking a step.

“We do.”

The others raised their guns.

Junior didn’t back down. He kept walking, leaving the gun behind, striding right for the four men. It was a gutsy thing to do, but then, I wouldn’t have expected anything else.

Remarkably, two of the men stepped aside.

Junior kept his mouth tight, eyes hard, game-face firmly in place. He strode past the men.

“We’ll be home soon,” he whispered to the girl.

As the last word left his mouth, the butt of a rifle hit him across the back of the head, and sent him to the ground, unconscious.

3

(I)

While all of this was going on, I was enjoying a festive lunch that included several different versions of beans, goat meat, and lamb. The spices improved with each serving. My hosts kept glancing at me from the corner of their eyes, trying to see if the chili and whatever other spices they had added would set my hair on fire. But the food was very tame; when you’ve had warm monkey brains (warm because the monkey is still squirming when you eat it) a few little chili peppers aren’t going to bother you.

We were through the main courses and heading toward desserts when a young lieutenant walked briskly into the dining room to report that shots had been fired to the north. My hosts weren’t particularly alarmed; gunfire along the border is an everyday occurrence. The commander ordered the lieutenant to organize a team to investigate.

“I wouldn’t mind going with them,” I said, getting up. “I need a little exercise after all that food.”

For some reason this struck the commander as funny.

“You are exercising?” He patted his belly. Though not quite as fat as Buddha’s, it was headed in that direction. “Exercise is for morning. After lunch, we will hear Captain Panchavati lecture on crossing numbers.”

“I’d just as soon stretch my legs first,” I said. Having already heard the captain lecture on general security measures just before the food arrived, I knew I’d need to do something to stay awake.

My legs didn’t get much of a stretch—the lieutenant and two of his men headed to an eight-wheeled ATV in the lot maybe ten yards from the building where I’d been having lunch. The ATV looked like a swamp boat with wheels and no fan unit. Instead of a steering wheel it had a set of motorcycle-style handlebars. It wasn’t exactly fast. Rumbling downhill we barely reached five miles an hour.

It didn’t occur to me that Junior might be in any danger until we reached the hole under the fence. I saw bicycle marks on the road, and blood trailing across the dirt to the trees. Instantly I pulled out my sat phone. Junior didn’t answer.

The lieutenant tried radioing the men who’d been with him, but also got no answer. He sent his men wading into the woods.

Tufts of clothing were hooked into the barbs near the fence, but it was impossible to tell who they belonged to. I began walking up along the fence line, training my ears to listen for human sounds—hushed voices, maybe, or better, footsteps through the brush.

Finally I heard something to the left, in trees beyond a short hill covered with thick weeds. Someone was running in my direction.

I ducked down and got ready to grab whoever it was. A white shirt shot out of the trees, running almost directly for me. It dodged left, then right, materializing into a person and pushing brush away as it went. When the runner was within five yards, I coiled myself, then sprang.

My knees had been battered during my African narco-pirate safari, but the pain had subsided to the point that I’d mostly forgotten about them. They apparently felt neglected, and gave me a sharp reminder as I sprang to grab the runner. I ignored them, concentrating on my target. He was a thin young man, so fragile that as I tackled him I thought I cracked half his bones.

His threadbare clothes didn’t seem capable of holding a penny, let alone a weapon. He was so scrawny he looked like he’d hurt himself hitting me.

“Why are you running?” I demanded.

He just stared at me.

Something black flashed through the woods in the distance. It was one of the men who’d come over the border earlier, though at that point I had no idea who or even what it was. While my head was turned, the man I’d tackled jumped up and began running in the direction of the fence.

The man in black pulled his rifle up and began firing—probably at the runner, though the bullets came in my direction.

I started to get up, then fell immediately on my face as my knee gave way. That proved to be a good thing—either the man with the black shirt didn’t see me or thought he’d killed me, because he ran directly toward me without stopping, intent on getting the other man. Just as he was passing, I threw out my arm and caught the back of his boot. He flew forward, tumbling into the bushes and losing the gun as he fell.

Had Murphy been on my side, he would have sent him into a tree. But that bastard has never been particularly friendly.

We both dove for the rifle. I grabbed it first, rolling it away from his grip. I lifted myself onto my left side, ready to shoot.

The man in the black shirt froze, fear in his eyes. My knee had me in a bad mood, but somehow I managed not to fire.

“Hands up,” I told him.

He immediately complied.

The lieutenant I’d been with came trotting up from the road, where apparently he’d observed the entire encounter from a safe distance. He obviously has a real future as a C
2
officer.
20

“Commander Marcinko—are you all right?” he asked. “You have captured a smuggler!”

He ran over to the man who had his hands up and punched him in the side of the head. Either the punch wasn’t very hard or the man had a particularly high pain threshold, because the prisoner barely flinched. The lieutenant gave him a few more smacks, then a kick to his side. The prisoner took it stoically.

“Easy,” I told the Indian. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“He is a criminal. A smuggler.”

“What is he smuggling?” I asked.

“You name it, they bring it.” The lieutenant yelled at the man in Bengali, the native language of Bangladesh. It’s also commonly spoken on the Indian side of the border in Tripura.

The smuggler didn’t answer. The lieutenant smacked him again, then hauled the man to his feet and began marching him toward the ATV.

A few minutes later, the lieutenant’s two men emerged from the woods with Junior’s escorts. The escorts told a greatly embellished tale of having been ambushed by dozens of black-shirted smugglers. The shirt color was significant, at least to the border guards, since it signaled that the men were part of a local gang known in English as the Shirkers. The leaders were Muslim deserters from the Indian army who had found refuge in Bangladesh.

I interrupted their tale of bravery—in their account, they’d each killed half a dozen before running out of ammo—to ask what had happened to Junior. They claimed they had seen him turning his bike around toward the base in fear.

“He should be there now,” said the mouthier of the two. “He turned as soon as he saw them. Not a brave man.”

Junior has his faults, but a lack of courage isn’t one of them. I knew they were lying, even before I found his bike in the grass a short time later.

By then, more troops from the border guard station had arrived. While the lieutenant organized them into search parties, a sergeant with drooping eyebrows and thick forearms began asking the smuggler what he knew. The first two or three questions came in a calm voice; then the intensity level began to increase exponentially. By the sixth question, it was clear the man wasn’t going to respond no matter how hard the words. The sergeant resorted to using his fists, first on the man’s midsection, then on his face.

This didn’t work either. If anything, it only seemed to stiffen his resolve not to say anything.

“Let me talk to him,” I said, interrupting. “You’re not going to get anywhere like that.”

The sergeant was a little shorter than me, but wider—heavy without seeming fat. He blinked at me. Apparently no one had ever questioned his interrogation techniques.

“Commander, you should go back to camp,” said the lieutenant. “We will carry on from here. We are used to these searches.”

He pointed to the three groups he had organized, which were moving into the woods on the Indian side.

“If the smugglers are from Bangladesh, why the hell are you looking on this side of the border?” I asked. “Aren’t they likely to have gone back over?”

The lieutenant smiled indulgently. “You do not understand our ways, Commander. We will see you back at the base.”

*   *   *

While I was trying to make sense of the nonsensical, Junior was imprisoned in one of the gang’s safe houses across the border. His captors had realized he was American, and while kidnapping was out of their line, they figured he would bring them a good amount of ransom if handled properly. With other things to worry about at the moment, they locked him with the goods they were planning to smuggle across the border after dark.

These goods happened to be poor Bangladeshis hoping to find work across the border, and willing to sell themselves into virtual slavery for it. A dozen men were packed into Junior’s room, which measured roughly ten by twelve. They had been there for two days, waiting for their chance to get across the border. Women and children, including the little girl Junior had tried to rescue, were in the room next to them.

“Does anyone speak English?” Junior asked as soon as the door was closed behind him.

No one answered.

“English?” he asked again, raising his voice slightly. It was a small room, but no one seemed to hear him.

“English?” he repeated, this time even louder.

“Sshh,” admonished one of the men. “Keep your voice down. Do not anger our jailers.”

Junior lowered his voice to a whisper. “You can speak English?”

“Most of us can.” The man, dark-skinned and skinny, looked about forty years old, with knotted fingers and deep wells around his eyes. “But reminding them of that is bad health. They think we are planning, like the others who left.”

“How many got away?” asked another man, shorter and younger.

“I’m not sure,” said Junior.

“They have some chained outside. Did you see them?”

Junior shook his head. He suspected that most if not all of the escapees were recaptured, but saying that felt too pessimistic.

The older man explained that most of the people had been in the house for several days. Tired of waiting, a few had hatched a plan to pry boards off the floor of the women’s cell. The smugglers naturally objected, since that meant they wouldn’t be paid.

Junior examined the walls and ceiling as the man talked. The three-room structure was made of clay bricks with a wood-shingle roof. The single window consisted of an opening filled by thin slats of wood—it wouldn’t take much to break through them. Junior could see parts of the four other buildings in the small complex through the openings.

There was a commotion out in the courtyard. He craned his head but couldn’t see.

“They’re trying to decide what to do,” said the older man. “They aren’t sure whether to decide if he’s dead or not.”

“Who?”

“One of the guards. He was left behind in the gun battle. They think he is dead, shot—we could hear the gunfire. Weren’t you there?”

“I was,” admitted Junior. He wasn’t sure how many details to give. “I didn’t see anyone get shot.”

The man listened some more.

“Are they going to look for him?” Junior asked.

The man shook his head.

“No. They are blaming the people who escaped. They are trying to decide whether to kill just the ones they returned, or all of us.”

(II)

Less than a mile away as the crow flies, I was making a plan to find and then rescue my son. It was pretty damn clear that either the border guards had no clue, or weren’t interested in putting themselves in danger to find him. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to go meekly back to the outpost. The Indian commander assigned two men to escort me and the prisoner back. While they were pulling him to his feet, I took out my sat phone and called Shunt.

“Man, you know what time it is here?” he asked in a groggy voice.

“I need you to locate Junior.”

“Uh, he’s like, with you in India.”

“Pull up the GPS locator map. I think he was kidnapped and taken across the border. Or he’s lost somewhere in the woods.”

“Hold on.”

If I’d been in a better mood, I would have asked Shunt when he started sleeping at night—it’s not like him. We don’t break down our office costs by food items; if we did, I’m sure the coffee and caffeinated drink bill would look high enough to feed several third world countries.

“Just under a mile from you,” he told me.

“I need you to send actual GPS coordinates to my phone,” I said. “And stay on the line with me.”

“Uh—”

“You got something better to do?”

“Not after I take a leak.”

“Use an empty Coke can, Shunt. I need you on the line.”

*   *   *

Back in his makeshift jail, Junior had just stepped away from the window when the door to the room flew open. Two of the black-shirt gangsters came in and began pushing the men out of the room. The first two were slow to realize what the men wanted; they were hurled against the wall on the other side of the threshold; after that, the others filed out as quickly as they could, more or less on their own power.