The Fourth War
for Chris Stewart and
The Fourth War
“Chris Stewart's literary torque wrench cranks up the tension to an unbearable point in this stark tale of the war on terror.
The Fourth War
is more than a page-turner, it's a mind-blower as he tosses twists, turns, and surprises on every page. Bound to be a movie!”
âWalter Boyne,
bestselling author of
The Wild Blue
“The novel's surprising details feel entirely authenticâ¦Stewart is impressively skilled at presenting the entire tapestry of his warâthe many threads of the terrorist, allied and American forces.”
âPublishers Weekly
“A smash-'em-up, swift-flying Western.”
âKirkus Reviews
“Better than Tom Clancy. Knuckle-whitening flying scenes.”
âDouglas Preston, bestselling author
of
Dance of Death,
on
Shattered Bone
“Full throttleâ¦laced with intrigue.”
âEric Harry,
author of
Arc Light,
on
The Kill Box
To my dad,
who instilled in me the pure joy of flight.
And Pat and Shellee Dooley,
who sacrificed to make this possible.
It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died.
Rather we should thank God that such men lived.
âGen. George S. Patton
Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God.
âInscription on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier
Tora Bora
Eastern Afghanistan
17 January 2002
The weave of natural caverns extended deep into the earth, more deeply than the rain of American bombs could ever hope to reach. But the smoke, black and acid, that poisoned the air had forced the few soldiers that remained to take refuge in the back of the caves on the south side of the mountain. There they listened in the darkness, waiting for death to appear.
The soldiers had pledged to sacrifice their lives to God, though few expected the opportunity would present itself so soon.
Still, the bombing confirmed what the Taliban had been told. The Americansâsmooth-faced and soft like a fat woman's bellyâwere too cowardly to fight them man-to-man on the ground, and too callous to care how many they killed. So let them rain down fire and steel from the sky. If they brought death, that was fine; death only brought paradise, and other warriors were always ready to step into their place.
The soldiers cowered in the caves and listened carefully. Over the past weeks they had learned to tell which kind of attack aircraft it wasâthe slow and lumbering B-52s, with their monstrously noisy engines and long contrails of smoke, or the sleek and speeding B-1s, which streaked in very low, their bombs reaching their targets before the sound of their engines arrived.
On this night, on this target, B-52s were overhead. A flight of four passed over the caves and belched out their bombs. Two hundred and sixteen five-hundred-pound bombs fell through the night with a soft
whooshing
sound, a mild rushing of air pushed aside by their nose cones and small steering fins. Then the earth began to shake and the ground began to roll. The air shattered and compressed, smashing the eardrums of the men as the bombs created a mushroom of fire and overpressure that carried chunks of hot metal, broken rock, and pieces of human flesh. For almost seven minutes the attacks rolled in from above, the bombs dropping like angels of death from the sky. The acidic smoke carried through the caverns like a black, deadly wall, before finding the air vents and lifting into the night wind.
As the bombs fell, the al Qaeda soldiers hunkered and waited in their caves. Many of them died. Soldiers died every night. But the leader, the great warrior, lived through the attack. His men knew that he would, for he had been touched by God.
After what seemed like an eternity, the last explosion rumbled through the cave. Then the air finally settled and the night wind returned. The smell of smoke, burned flesh, and human intestines seemed to be everywhere.
Then the Great One, their leader, struggled again to his knees, turned to his warriors, and lifted his head. His eyes, clear and bright, reflecting the red fire and flame, moved dangerously around the small cavern, boring through every man.
“It is time,” he announced in a voice filled with rage. “Let the devils tear down the mountain, it is time we moved on. The greatest battle awaits us. Come, let us go.”
And with that he stood and crawled from the cave. He struggled through a small opening to set out across the desert, making his way through the night toward the border of Pakistan, walking alone and unafraid with only a small pack on his back. Two lieutenants struggled to keep up, following him across the dry sand. The moon was cold and white. Sunrise was seven hours away.
Late the next day the leader passed through the port of Karachi. Two weeks after that he was in his new home.
Eastern Dasht-e Lut Desert, Iran
Eleven Kilometers from the Afghanistan Border
The meeting took place on the edge of a high mountain desert, miles from humanity, but near the center of Asia. The terrible mountains of Turkmenistan lie not far to the north. The unmarked wasteland of the Afghanistan border was just to the east. It was a harsh land, foreboding, majestic, and severe, with no well-established borders to belabor the travel of beasts or men. Hidden under the desert were a thousand years worth of battle relics from the pastâarrowheads, cankered armor, broken spears, and rusted gunsâall of which served as a reminder that the area, though desolate, had been fought over before.
During the last century, the Dasht-e Lut had taken a turn toward relative peace, allowing the local nomadic herdsman to recapture an existence that hadn't changed for two thousand years. But rumors of war could now be heard again. Bandits, nonuniformed armies, and fugitives from international law could be found in the caves that spiderwebbed through the base of the mountains, and even up into the rocky buttes with their scrub-topped plateaus.
It was a perfect place to hide, for this was territory beyond the edge of civilization. There were no borders in the mountains and no nation-states, no governments or security, no communications or roads. And there certainly was no authority that recognized the West.
The designated rendezvous spot was along a rocky lip of the Garabil Plain, on the outskirts of a forgotten mining town that had been happily deserted soon after the First World War. The broken-down shanties, tiny dwellings that had been scraped together from tar paper and old shipping crates, had been arranged around a small spring that was now a dark, muddy hole. The opening to the mine shaft was somewhere up the side of the hill, lost in the cedars and brush that had grown up over the years. On this night, the moon was clear and round, bright white and surrounded by a thin halo from the ice crystals that had blown off the snow-capped Himalayan peaks to the east. The air was perfectly still, as the earth seemed to take a breath and hold it, waiting and listening, knowing something soon would appear.
The American watched from the mount of his horse, a long-legged Arabian that he loved like a child. He patted her mane gently, softly speaking her name.
The Harlot Isabel
he called her in tribute to his first wife, a blonde and blued-eyed heartbreaker who had taken most of his money and skipped off with her boss. Behind his legs, the saddlebags bulged with the latest in twenty-first-century technologyâa rubber-coated computer, GPS, satellite telephone, encryption encoder, laser designator, and infrared sensor and night-vision displayâall of which would have been worthless if it weren't for the horse, for there was no other way to travel in this part of the world. The terrain was too harsh, the mountains too steep, and the distance between water supplies was simply too far to get around any other way.
The saddle held another secret: Sown into the cotton saddle straps, wrapped under the sweating belly of his horse, was $200,000 in thousand-dollar bills. Over the past year the agent Peter Zembeic had passed out more than three million dollars to various warlords, terrorists, old men, and young girlsâeveryone and anyone willing to feed his intelligence operation. Entire armies were for sale, but they didn't come cheap, and flashing cash was one of the things the CIA did very well. Peter sometimes wondered which he needed more, his horse or his cash. The truth was, both were indispensable in this part of the world.
Peter worked for a CIA group known as the “Campers” (though the organization was so secret their code name was changed every six months or so). There were a hundred or so Campers working throughout the Caspian area. With infiltration routes, drop zones, stolen Russian helicopters, intelligence contacts, and assault points, the Campers were a key to the fight against terror. With the ability to hide in plain sight, they get in and get out before anyone can figure out who they were.
The American agent held the reins lightly, then carefully nudged his animal's side. The Arabian moved forward, her eyes already adjusted to the night, then instinctively stopped at the crest of the hill. Brushing against the needles of a juniper, the horse sought additional cover. She had been trained very well. He owed his life to this mount.
The American waited, knowing he wasn't alone. In the distance, in the shadows on a hill twenty paces behind him, four Tajiks and his Afghani guide watched through their night-vision goggles. Soldiers of fortune, they worked for the American and were only as loyal as his money could keep them. And there was also someone else. Someone down on the path, near the trees. The American had not seen her yet, but he knew she was there. He closed his eyes to concentrate on his ears.
He listened and waited, picking up the slightest sound. It was an extraordinary gift, his ability to know, his ability to hear things that no one else seemed to hear, his ability to sense things that his eyes couldn't see. And so he waited and listened to what the night brought. Behind, he heard the soft breath of his men. There was scratching to his right, soft paws against the dry dirt, and the wings, overhead, of a very large bird. And the sound of her crying. The woman was drawing very near.
Dawn was still more than two hours away when a small, human shape approached from the end of the trail, emerging into the light of the full moon. The American dismounted silently and checked the time. He waited another twenty seconds then stepped into the dim light.
He snapped a chem-stick, which glowed with a dull, yellow light. Holding it up, he studied her face. She was young, slender, and stunningly beautiful, with Eurasian eyes, light skin, and black, silky hair. He smelled her exquisite body oil and was flooded for a moment with memories of a girl in Madrid. She wore the traditional
ghueto,
a long, flowing cloak that was pushed back over her shoulders and fastened at the neck, but underneath were a white cotton sweater, blue jeans, and dark leather boots. Tiny diamonds in her earrings caught the light of the moon and sparkled dimly, like the stars in the sky. Here in the desert, her beauty seemed completely out of place. Everything about her spoke of physical perfection, which was the reason, of course, that she was what she was. Since the age of sixteen, she had been her master's
Ji nu'
. She was perhaps twenty now, though it was hard to tell. She could have been younger, for she had the body language of a child, but her eyes showed the weariness of too many years in a dark world.
Approaching the American, she displayed little emotion, for the simple fact was she knew she was already dead. Her only hope, her only dream, was to leave this world alone, exit by herself, with little fanfare.
The American agent studied her face, growing anxious and tense. Something about her made him uneasy. Fifty meters behind him, on the side of the hill, he knew the low-light video camera was running. The encounter would be taped and played back for his superiors later on. He maneuvered to his right, allowing the camera a clear shot of her face, then glanced at his lapel, where the tiny microphone was hidden. Taping such encounters was standard procedure now, for much could be learned when a tape was reviewed.
“Ready,
Rasul,
” the American heard in his earpiece. As always, the Tajik had called him by his Arabic title. Peter Zembeic was his real name, but the Muslim guides behind had never heard it before. Here, in the field, his men only knew him as
Rasul al-Laylat,
an Arabic phrase which meant Apostle of the Night.
The CIA agent, a former air force pilot who had been stripped of his wings, a former army Ranger who stayed in for only one year, was one of the new breed of CIA agents who operated continually “in-country.” To call the agent hard core would fall short of the mark. He was wild and ruthless, and American through and through. Well studied and arrogant, confident enough to believe he was on the right side of this war, he was willing to fight dirty, to scratch, bite, and claw to make certain his side prevailed.
Maybe ten years older than the girl, the agent looked like a Hells Angel who had just dismounted his hog. He wore a tight beard, long hair to his shoulders, and a dirty baseball cap, the bill hanging over his neck. His black T-shirt was cut off at the shoulders exposing biceps that were taut from a combination of constant work and a high-protein diet. Leather gloves covered his hands, except for the fingers, which had been cut away at the first knuckle. A 9 mm was stuffed in a holster that hung from his belt, along with four clips of ammunition, a knife, compass, matches, radio, a small pouch for his tobacco, and a picture of his dad.
They had been operating in-country for almost four weeksâsleeping in the desert, eating dry rations and snakes, watching the roads, and consorting with the rebels who flowed back and forth between Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, China, Tajikistan, and Pakistan. His mission was simple. Listen. Watch. See what was going on. Talk to the warlords and sip
hemish
tea with the tribesmen while watching their men, befriend the tribal leaders with gifts of information on their enemies. The desired outcome, of course, was to gather information on the al Qaeda forces. The enemy was regrouping and it was now a real concern. Indeed, they were growing stronger with each passing day. The Russian generals had warned them, and now it appeared they were right.
Peter's father had enlisted in the United States Army just as the Vietnam War was kicking into high gear, and his father's military experience had planted the seed in his mind. From the earliest memory, he knew that was what he would do. When he was eight, Peter broke a leg jumping off the garage, wearing a homemade parachute. When he was eleven, he built a submarine out of an old fifty-five-gallon drum, which immediately sunk to the bottom of a mossy pond in the city park. In high school, he was an outstanding athlete and the defensive team captain of his football team and, though he had been offered several scholarships, he had turned them all down, accepting an ROTC slot instead.
The summer after his freshman year at Purdue, when Peter was still young and embarrassingly naïve, he signed up for the Peace Corps and set out for Cairo, bent on bringing peace and love to the innocents of the world. But, that summer life stepped up and slapped him in the face. The realities of ethnic and religious hatred proved a powerful instructor, and Zembeic was now a strident convert to the old ways of the world. Power, strength, and information had become his new religion, and saving America was now his cause. Uncannily gifted at language, fluent in Persian, Arabic, and Urdu, a former military officer and Army Ranger, the CIA officer understood the culture enough to survive in this part of the world. He was one of the new breed of paramilitary operators who slithered throughout central Asiaâhard, educated, smart as a whip, focused, determined, willing to fight, kill, and die for what they knew to be right. In his dark T-shirt and black jeans (black was his favorite color, as he only traveled at night) the young American was technically a spy with none of the benefits accorded by the Geneva Convention, a fact he resented but accepted.
The American smelled like burnt camel dung, the only fuel available in the desert. He was hungry, anxious, and weary to the bone. He was running a fever and hadn't eaten all day. His stomach groaned within him as he looked up at the moon. Hang on, he told himself, the task almost complete. In a few minutes the chopper would pick him up and take him back to Camp Horse, where he would deliver the package and spend a month debriefing and resting before coming back in-country again.
As Zembeic studied the girl, she bowed her head, refusing to meet his eyes. He took a deep breath, glancing toward the dark expanse of Afghani desert on the other side of the border, then back at his pack, with its communications gear. The two strangers were silent, for the rendezvous had been so hastily planned there had been no precoordinated introductions, code words, or authentication codesâno expectations of who would be waiting or what they would say. Just a time and a place. That was the rendezvous plan.
Zembeic held out his hand. “Do you have it?” he asked in Persian, having no idea what he was asking for.
The young women looked up and bit on the side of her cheek. She gazed at him thoughtfully, but didn't say anything. He took a step toward her and asked the question again, this time speaking in the local dialect of the Khorasan province.
The woman stared blankly as if she did not understand, then smiled in submission. The American narrowed his eyes. “Do you
have
it?” he demanded, speaking in Persian again. Beautiful as she was, he was in no mood to delay.
The young girl only nodded. Isabel snorted behind him, waiting for her master, untied, in the dark. The girl cocked her head, pushing her lower jaw to the right, then slowly opened her mouth while reaching up with her hand. A piece of broken tooth sat on the tip of her tongue. She touched the tooth cautiously, then held it out carefully in the palm of her hand.
The agent stared in surprise. “What have you there?”
“It's a cap,” the girl answered. “It has been imbedded with a microchip. Take it. Keep it safe. It contains what you came here to get.”
The agent took the piece of white porcelain. Fingering the dental work, he swore to himself. It wasn't what he had expected, but then neither was the girl. He considered a moment, then glanced over his shoulder again.
“Anything else?” he asked sharply, forcing himself to ignore the beauty of her eyes.
She hesitated a long moment, staring into his face, the moonlight illuminating his features as he took a step back, holding the piece of broken tooth tightly in his palm. She looked at him pleadingly as Isabel snorted again. She glanced past his shoulder at the sleek outline of the horse, hesitated, thinking, then leaned toward him and put her lips to his ears. “She is a good animal,” she whispered.
He stared, not understanding.