The Fourth War (30 page)

Whiteman Air Force Base
Missouri

Col. Dick “Tracy” Kier sat alone in the semi-dark of his office, a single desk lamp providing the only light in the room. He had turned off his phone, actually disconnecting the line, and left his cell phone in the front seat of his car. The door to his office was closed and most of his staff had gone home for the night. He stretched in the dark, rubbing his hands over his eyes, then pulled the zipper on his flight suit down to mid-chest. He stared at the ceiling as the mantel clock struck nine then, reaching into his lower drawer, he pulled out a box of Macanudo cigars, thick, leafy smokes he had carried around for almost twenty-five years. He had purchased the cigars at a little shop in Panama City on his very first deployment out of the States, back when he was a young lieutenant flying F-4s. There was nothing special about them, relatively inexpensive as they were, but the box, worn and faded, had been with him for so many years. The Macanudos had become a ritual he used to mark the passing of time; the births of his children and the deaths of his friends, promotions and failures, accomplishments and good-byes.

He carefully opened the lid. Out of the original twenty, only four cigars remained. One had been saved for his father, who recently passed away; D. T. would keep that one until the day that he died. One cigar was reserved for his retirement and another to commemorate his last flight. Which left one Macanudo uncommitted.

This seemed like a pretty good time.

He pulled off the wrapper, crinkly with age, then searched for a match, rummaging through his desk drawer. Of course, he didn't have one. He hadn't smoked in fifteen years. He slammed his drawer shut then heard a knock at his door. A young major stepped into the room, the colonel's executive officer, one of the wing's young and rising stars. The exec, dressed in his blues, moved to the corner of D. T.'s desk. He studied the colonel, noting the unlit cigar, then cleared his voice and said, “Sir, they have ordered the rescue choppers at Camp Doha that have been searching the Persian Gulf to stand down.”

The colonel looked up. “Yes, I already know.”

“They were the last rescue assets tasked to look for our crew.”

The colonel didn't answer, but leaned back in his chair.

The major brushed his hands through his blond hair. “I'm sorry, Colonel, but we have just been informed that the legal affairs office at the Pentagon has officially changed the status of the crew from missing to deceased.”

The colonel was silent.

“I'm sorry,” the major said.

Kier grunted at the condolences. “Still no sign of any wreckage?” he asked.

“No. Nothing sir.”

“And doesn't that seem strange to you?”

The young major paused. He knew his boss very well. He knew he was governed by emotion and loyalty sometimes more than by his brain. “It doesn't seem entirely unlikely, sir,” he answered carefully. “Losing a B-2 isn't like losing a commercial airliner, with bodies and seat cushions, children's toys and luggage and stuff. A B-2 is a couple of huge pieces of metal, some black boxes, and really nothing more. I can't think of a single component of the aircraft that would float to the surface if it went down in the sea, and the mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan are as remote as the moon. So, no sir, I'm not surprised the rescue choppers didn't find any wreckage.”

Kier scowled in frustration. “You know, it's just that…I don't know, I can't connect the dots. I can't get from here to there. I just don't see how Kill 31 could just…
poof,
disappear.”

The major was silent. It was pretty clear to him. The B-2 was gone. There wasn't a thing they could do. In peacetime the military lost an aircraft every month or so. In combat it was understood they would lose many more. Sometimes they knew why, sometimes they didn't have a clue. Sometimes they discovered the wreckage, sometimes they only shot blanks. But at some point, you had to accept the facts, count your rosaries, and get on with the job. His boss should be making funeral arrangements, not fighting the obvious.

The two men were silent as Kier chewed on his cigar. “They didn't make it to the Gulf,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Sir?”

“I don't think the B-2 made it to the Gulf. Something else happened. They went down before they got to the ocean. I don't believe this crew drove a good jet into the sea.”

The major shifted his weight from one foot to the other, cleared his throat and moved forward a step. “Colonel, permission to speak freely?” he asked.

Kier nodded reluctantly. The kid was brilliant, but annoying. Still, he would listen to what he had to say.

“Sir, there are only a few runways in the region that are long enough for the B-2 to land. And we have studied every one. Studied every rock. And what have we found? Nothing, sir, not so much as a whiff of the jet. In addition, NRO satellites have searched the entire area for any indication of impact or fire. There's nothing there, sir. Nothing to give us so much as a shred of hope.

“So it seems pretty simple. We've seen this before. The crew was on a critical mission and simply pushed too hard, then got themselves into a situation from which they could not recover. They were critically low on fuel to begin with, then ran into trouble. They could have hit severe weather in the mountains or taken enemy fire. The skin of the Stealth had to be damaged, which would have made them detectable to radar, or perhaps they had engine or mechanical problems from the collision with the refueling boom. We really don't know, sir, it could have been many things.”

“But they would have ejected.”

“Probably. But even if they did, the crew is now dead. We have no sign of survivors, no radio, no beacons, nothing at all. They are gone, Colonel and I'm sorry, but that's what I believe.”

The colonel nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “You are right. You are right.” His voice was sad, and yet still unconvinced.

The major paused a moment, then nodded to the old wooden box. “Sir, forgive me, but you know it is true. That's why you broke out the cigars.”

Kier stared at his Macanudo, then at the floor. The major relaxed, his stiff shoulders becoming less square. “Sir, we need to start making arrangements,” he said.

Kier lifted his head.

“A memorial service, sir, and a million other things. It will take several days to complete legal actions for the next of kin. There's a lot to do now that we have moved from missing to deceased.”

Kier waved his hand. “Take care of it,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The major turned and walked for the door, then paused to look back at Kier. “At least Colonel Bradley and Captain Lei didn't leave families behind,” he said in a soft voice, trying to comfort his boss. “There are no children. No spouses. It could have been worse.”

Kier thought of his friends and the missing warheads, then shook his head no.

The major was wrong.

It could not be worse.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

Doctor Washington's assistant was waiting for him in his office when he returned from the White House. “I've got a message from Zembeic,” he said hurriedly.

“Where is he?” Washington asked.

“Back in position at Camp Horse.”

“Did he report anything from his meeting with Gah?”

The deputy shook his head. “Said it was uneventful. Said he'd tell you about it someday.”

Washington shook his head anxiously. He had heard that line from Peter before. “I'll tell you about it later,” meant “It didn't go very well.”

He thought in silence as he dropped his wet overcoat on the back of his chair. “What are you hearing from the team in the mountains?” he asked.

“They still can't get in position. Too many bad guys around, and it's making travel impossible. Right now, they are two valleys west of Tirich Mir. But they are seeing multiple army trucks on the road leading to the mountains. Al Qaeda and Taliban soldiers. It sounds like they are everywhere.”

“Okay, fine. What else?” he demanded.

“The team is awaiting your instructions. What do you want them to do?”

Washington thought a moment. “Tell them to bug out,” he said. “There's no reason to stay there. The warheads are gone. Then get me transportation to Pakistan. And I want something fast. Tell those guys I'm coming over to see what's going on myself.”

Lyangar Air Field
Southern Tajikistan

Angra walked into the cell. It was dark—cold and damp, with the musky odor of rot. Three guards followed him in, while another held the door open, allowing light from the hall to illuminate the dark interior.

Tia hunched in the corner, her face white with dread, her mouth dry from dehydration and fear. She watched Angra carefully as her heart pounded in her chest. Since she had been taken captive, she had not said a word, not so much as a whimper, not so much as her name, which had infuriated her captor and excited him at the same time.

Angra nodded to one of the guards, who shouted down the hall. A tray of food was brought into the cell and placed on the floor; boiled carrots and onions and a thick chunk of dried meat. A wooden jug of water was also placed next to the food.

Angra stared down at the woman. She was extraordinary, yes, perfect in feature and form, but she had to be a harlot, an ugly, filthy whore, or she would never had made it so far in the military, which was a man's world. So he sneered at her angrily, a hungry look on his eye. Tia stared at him defiantly, then dropped her head.

Angra smiled again, his thin face and long beard sagging under his cheeks. Tia saw the craving and averted her eyes.

Angra lifted a narrow finger. “Eat,” he commanded her in a gruff voice. He wanted her stronger, he wanted her to have her wits back before he returned. It would be more fun, more of a challenge, if she had regained some strength.

Tia pushed herself to her feet and glared at Angra, then moved for the food. Though she didn't want to, she knew that she had to eat. If she wanted to live she had to regain her strength.

Angra watched her a moment, then turned and walked from the cell. “I'll be back for you,” he muttered before he slammed the steel door closed.

Tia looked up and stopped eating, feeling suddenly sick.

Sometime later, he came back, but this time he was alone. Tia shivered in her corner, knowing her time had come.

There were no words to describe what he did to her then. It was far more than torture, far more than abuse, far more than humiliation, torment, or shame. When he was finished, she lay beaten and barely alive on the floor, surrounded by her blood, his spit, and her teeth.

Spent and weary, Angra stood over her and glared down at her face. A few hours, a day maybe, she was not going to live. He had seen enough death to measure its pace. And if she was lucky, she would die before she regained consciousness.

But he didn't want her to die without knowing that she had failed. “Can you hear me?” he shouted as he stared down at her. She moaned and looked away and he knew that she could. “You have failed,” he hissed. “The warheads are ours. You are going to die. We'll destroy you. You have failed everything.”

VA Medical Center
Washington, D.C.

The VA hospital was a gloomy and boxy building three stories high, with several wings jutting off a main cement and brick concourse that faced a large parking lot. Built on a dirty street in a weary part of the city, the hospital's bland construction blended in perfectly with its downtown surroundings. But despite its depressing setting, the Medical Center was affiliated with three excellent medical schools (Georgetown, Howard, and George Washington universities) and had developed a reputation as a top-notch acute-care research-and-teaching facility. Because of this, VA Washington was considered one of the finest hospitals in the entire veteran system.

Which was great news for those patients who were fighting hard to get better.

But for those waiting to die, it didn't matter that much.

A small hospice had been created on the third floor of the north wing. It was an open bay situated at the end of the hall, and because little medical equipment was needed to care for the dying, six beds had been crammed into the space that normally would have held only four. In an attempt to bring cheer to the room, the walls had been painted deep yellow and blue; but that was years before and the colors had faded. The carpet on the floor was short and stained in places, and the room smelled of disinfectant and soap. Three of the beds in the room were unoccupied, their sheets tight and clean and ready for the next dying man. Norman Allen Zembeic lay in the bed nearest the tinted window, furthest away from the bathroom and hallway door, and though his head was turned toward the window, he breathed deeply in sleep. It had been almost twenty-four hours since he had opened his eyes.

At a quarter to nine, a gray-haired nurse walked into the room. Despite the somber environment, she walked with a light step and seemed to smile easily. She had worked in the hospice for many years now and considered giving care to the dying as her special calling in life, a special calling from God. And she had learned from experience that there were only three things the patients in her care needed: morphine, a little water, and an occasional smile. They didn't need speculation about heaven (they would get the facts soon enough), they didn't need a priest to confess to, all their confessing was done. And they certainly didn't need sympathy, they were far beyond that. But they did need occasional drugs to take the edge off their pain and someone who wasn't afraid to talk about death. In addition, she knew that her patients, though dying, didn't want to live their last days in a tomb, so she threw open the window curtains, then turned to the men.

The nurse moved quietly through the room. Moving from one patient to the next she adjusted pillows, checked their catheters, and brushed back a stray hair. Norm Zembeic's bed was the last one she approached.

Norm was one of her favorites, a humble and likeable guy who always apologized for her having to take care of him. “I'm sorry you have to help me,” he would tell her as she helped him eat, or “I'm sorry for the trouble,” as she changed his sheets.

“Stop it,” she would tell him. “This is my job.”

“It's a lousy job.”

“Are you kidding! I love it. I get to meet great people like you.”

“That's a lot of short-term relationships,” he had mumbled lightly and they both had laughed.

That was five days before. But he was slipping quickly now.

During the first few days that he had been in her care, when his kidneys were still functioning and the pain hadn't been so bad, the nurse had learned a little bit about Norman Zembeic. She found out that he had emigrated from South Africa, served in Korea, lost his wife when he was young, and never married again.

“She was so beautiful,” Norm had told her with an almost romantic smile. “I loved her more than any man has ever loved anyone.”

“But she died when you were in your thirties.”

He had nodded his head.

“That's a long time to be alone, Mr. Zembeic.”

“Yes. Yes it was. But I think she's been waiting, so it all seems worth it now.”

“But what about your son?” the nurse had asked him, forcing an understanding smile. It burned her that Norm's son had never come to see him, never so much as called.

“He's a good man,” he had told her. “If you knew him, you would like him, he's a straight-up kind of guy.”

“Does he live around here?” Translation:
Why hasn't he come to see you?

“He's an intelligence officer assigned overseas.”

The nurse's voice instantly softened. “Is he in Iraq?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not. He travels a lot.”

“What does he do?”

“I don't know for certain, but he must be very good.”

Approaching the sleeping man's bed, the nurse leaned toward her patient and Norm opened his eyes, but he didn't even try to smile as he stared at her face. He was going, she could see that, for she knew all of the signs: His eyes were clouding over and his mouth was bone-dry, and his stomach was extended from all of the excess fluid in his body that his kidneys didn't have the capability to purge any more. She leaned toward him, speaking softly, “Can I get you anything, Mr. Zembeic?”

He stared, his eyes filmy, then slowly moved his lips. “I'm so thirsty,” he whispered in a voice filled with pain.

She reached to his bedside table and lifted a small plastic cup. Knowing he was too weak to suck, she put the cup to his lips and he slowly opened his mouth. She only poured in a few drops, but he started to choke and she had to pull the cup back. Putting it down, she grabbed a cotton swab and dipped it in the water, then placed it to his lips. He opened his mouth and she wet his tongue and lips, repeating the process until he was too tired to suck at the swab any more.

His head fell to the side. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome, Norm. Can I get you anything else?”

He turned his head and stared at her a moment. “Can you bring me my son?”

She shook her head sadly. “I'm sorry,” she said.

The old man looked out the window. “I wish he was here,” he was barely able to say. “There are some things I would like to tell him…” His voice trailed off.

“Tell me, Mr. Zembeic, and I will tell him for you.”

“It's nothing. Really nothing.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“I wish I could tell him…that I have always been proud.”

The nurse reached for his cold hand and held it tightly in hers. “I'll tell him, Norm. I'll tell him. I'll make sure that he knows.”

 

Norman Allen Zembeic passed away at 3:17
P.M
. that same afternoon. After falling asleep a little after one, he simply never woke up. There were no final words, no long last looks or tearful good-byes, no holding or crying with his loved ones around him, and no grieving children standing with each other in the hall. He simply went to sleep and slipped away as peacefully as he had lived; quietly, easily, with no fanfare or fame.

When the nurse came in to check on him he was already gone. She stared at him a moment, saying the same prayer she always did, then walked to his bed, turned his head so that he was facing the ceiling, crossed his hands on his chest, gently closed his eyes, then pulled the sheet up.

Taking a step back, she slowly bowed her head, cursing the fact that no family was there. No man should leave this life without someone he loved by his side. No man should ever have to die by himself.

She thought of Norm's son, the soldier, and wondered where in this whole wide world he might be, what he was doing, and why he couldn't come home?

“Yes, Norm, he must be good,” she agreed with what the sick man had said. “I'm sure that he loved you. And I'm glad you were proud.”

 

The agency made every effort to contact Peter about the death of his father, but under the circumstances it proved impossible.

Lyangar Airfield
Southern Tajikistan

Col. Shane Bradley hunched in the corner of his cell, naked, confused, angry, and alone. He wrapped his arms across his chest and shivered violently from the cold. He was hungry. And thirsty. So thirsty he thought he might die.

His prison was a cement chamber in the basement, a dank and filthy room that hadn't been occupied in years. There were no windows, no bars, and no hope for escape. The only light was a yellow beam that leaked through the crack under the steel door. As he stared at the light, a huge, sagging spider crawled under the crack and climbed up the wall. Angry rats squealed above him. Bradley looked up to see the flash of yellow teeth, long tails, and glaring red eyes. And he smelled death above him. Something was rotting up there.

Colonel Bradley pushed himself to his feet and took a few careful steps. His throat burned and his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. He took another two steps, then began walking at a slow, steady pace. He had to keep going. He had to keep alive.

After ten minutes, he stopped, feeling achy and weak.

He needed some water or he was not going to survive.

He walked a few minutes, then lay down and instantly fell asleep.

 

Colonel Bradley woke with a start, his eyes darting wildly around the dark room. The steel door to his cell was suddenly pushed back and three guards, strong, and heartless, stood at the doorway and glared at him. They were all dressed the same; leather boots, tan fatigues and black billy clubs. One of the guards shined a flashlight in Bradley's eyes and the colonel pushed himself to his knees and held his hands up to shield his face. The officer grunted in Urdu and the three men entered the room.

“Water?” Bradley begged them. The men laughed at his suffering. “Water,” he begged in a dry voice again.

“He wants water?” The leader mocked in heavily accented English. Unzipping his fly, he urinated on the floor as the other guards laughed and slapped their boss on the back.

“Look at him,” the leader sneered, unable to hold his disgust. “Look at this American crawl on the floor.” He bent toward Colonel Bradley and spit a wad of phlegm in his face. Bradley reached up to wipe it and the Arab slapped his hand away. “Leave it, American. And stay down on the floor.” He towered over the pilot, challenging him. Bradley stared up with dry eyes, the wad of spit on his cheek.

“You will die here, American, alone, in the dark. So don't ask me for water unless you want more of my
harre.
There's more of that, if you want it.” The guard started laughing again. “We'll be back for you, American,” he sneered as he turned for the door.

“I want to see Captain Lei,” Bradley demanded as the men walked away. “You have no right to keep us. We are United States officers.”

The Arab stopped and turned back. “Believe me, American, I know who you are.” He stared at the pilot, spit again, then shut the cell door.

Bradley crawled after him, lowering his face to the crack under the door. He lay there and listened until he was sure they were gone. “Captain Lei,” he whispered, calling out to the dark. “Captain Lei, are you there?”

He turned his head and listened. “Tia, can you hear me!” he whispered again.

But the dark remained silent and he cursed wearily.

 

An hour later Angra strolled comfortably into the cell, his arms behind his back, his eyes heavy-lidded and dead. Two enormous, bearded guards escorted him on each side. Like the others, Angra was dressed in tan fatigues and black leather boots. A shoulder harness was strapped to his chest with a 9 mm Model 17 Glock tucked neatly inside, a weapon he had taken off a dead soldier early in the Afghanistan war and now wore with great pride, his first spoil of war.

Bradley slumped weakly against the back wall. Angra threw him a thin pair of pants. “Get dressed,” he commanded.

Bradley pulled on the pants, then stood, a defiant look on his face. Angra stared at the pilot. “You will kneel in my presence,” he commanded.

Bradley shook his head. “I will stand,” he replied.

The nearest guard cracked his nightstick savagely across Bradley's knee. The bone cracked and Bradley went down with a groan, bending over and grabbing painfully at his leg before the guard kicked Bradley's shoulder, rolling him onto his side. Bradley struggled into a sitting position and wrapped his arms around his legs as a smear of dark blood soaked through the leg of the thin cotton pants.

Angra knelt beside him. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

Bradley nodded slowly.

“Perhaps thirsty as well?”

Bradley licked his dry lips.

“Hmm…yes, I'm sure.” Angra brought his face level with Bradley's, looking him right in the eye. The pilot stared at the Arab. His eyes were dark holes surrounded by sagging, red lids and he pulled back suddenly, seeing the dark evil there.

The Arab watched him and laughed. “You see it, don't you pilot?” he said with a sneer. “You see it in my eyes. I call myself
Angra.
That means ‘Satan' to you. And that's how I feel. That's what I feel like inside. I am the devil and I will bring you nothing but suffering and pain.”

“My country will not forget us,” Bradley said. “They won't leave us here.”

“Don't kid yourself,” Angra laughed. “They have already called off the search. They have already forgotten. They think you are dead.”

Angra paused, giving the colonel a moment to think. “We are going to kill you,” he continued in a dreary voice. “But before you die, I really want to get in your head. There is so much you could tell us. So much that we want to know. I want to crawl in your brain and pull all of that precious information out. Now, I suspect you will resist, but you need to understand: There is no hope for you, Bradley, no hope at all.”

Bradley looked away. “Where is Captain Lei?” he asked as he struggled to his feet to face his interrogator again.

“She is dead,” Angra said simply. “She died a couple hours ago.”