Strike Force Bravo (17 page)

They were going back the long way, this again for security reasons. As secretive about his movements as Kazeel liked to be, anytime he was in the region word of his presence usually spread quickly. The route taken on the way to Sat Put had been grueling, but it had passed mostly through the high plains of northwest Pakistan, going around the mountains instead of over them. But these days, only a fool would take the same way twice. Of such things were successful ambushes made. That's why on the return trip to the Pushi the Dragos would be taking Kazeel over the mountains instead of around them.

 

It started raining about an hour into the trip; the temperature quickly dropped toward freezing. The mountains were getting progressively higher; indeed, this way back to the Pushi would take them over some of the highest peaks in southwest Asia. The roads up here were built in the early 1800s. At times the Rovers had to slow to less than five miles per hour. By the second hour of travel, they were so high up in the mountains, they were driving through the clouds formed around the peaks. It became difficult for Kazeel, sitting alone in the back of the middle vehicle, to see the armored truck in front or behind him. The rain and fog were that thick.

The rolling gloom gave him time to think, which was not a good thing. He tried to console himself that the bomb and gunplay back in the village either had been intended for Bahzi or were just the norm these days in this very lawless part of Pakistan. He just didn't want to believe he'd been the target. He already had too much to think about.

But as the miles wore on, that one thought began gnawing at him and would not let go.

 

By the fourth hour, the rain had turned to snow and the travel became even slower. Kazeel was constantly on the verge of having an anxiety attack. He didn't like going slow because, as his
judus
liked to say, slow meant being a better target. Even though there was practically a blizzard going on around him, Kazeel was still concerned. And he didn't like going over mountains anymore because mountains tended to be slippery and wet and icy and dangerous, especially on the way down.

Most of all, he cursed those bastard Crazy Americans for putting these thoughts in his head; he'd considered himself practically invulnerable before coming face-to-face with them. Now he was turning into a woman. Finally he knew what old Prince Ali must have been going through. No wonder he crashed his own plane!

Thankfully they passed out of some bad weather by going down the side of yet another steep mountain. But no sooner were they at the bottom than they started climbing yet another steep incline. Kazeel felt the panic rising in his chest again. Another mountain! Another slippery way up, another very slippery way down. He tried to look for a silver lining and came up with one after a few moments. This mountain wasn't as steep as the last few. This calmed him. After those last few monsters, this one would be a piece of cake, right? He leaned forward and tapped his Chechyan driver on the shoulder, indicating the man was doing a good job. The bodyguard simply grunted in reply.

Then Kazeel lay back and closed his eyes for the first time in a long time. They only had about seven more hours to go. Perhaps he could sleep some of the way home.

No such luck….

The instant he closed his eyes, his vehicle was rocked by an enormous explosion. Kazeel was thrown to the floor, violently gashing his head on the way down. Smoke suddenly filled the truck's interior. His masked driver began swerving madly, back and forth, steel wheels screeching on gravel. It was so wild, Kazeel didn't know if the man was really in control of the truck or if he'd been shot or even killed. The smoke was that thick inside. Kazeel tried to pull himself off the floor but found this nearly impossible. They were moving that crazily.

All this happened in a matter of seconds. Somehow Kazeel finally found the strength to crawl back up onto the seat. It was then the truck crashed through a wall of fire; it was so intense, Kazeel could see his reflection in the raw flames outside the window.
“What is happening!?”
he finally yelled.

The guard just gave him a quick grunt—at least he was still alive. But he was driving so intently Kazeel knew it was best that he shut up. Another explosion went off not 10 feet in front of them. Then another, on the left shoulder of the road. Another, off to their right.

“Big bombs…from air…” was what the driver finally yelled back to him in very broken English. Kazeel got the message. The little convoy was under air attack.

The driver never lost his cool. He was steering frantically with one hand and talking very loudly in some Slavic language into his cell phone in the other. Presumably he was communicating with his colleagues in the other two vehicles. More explosions were going off all around them, but Kazeel's driver managed to anticipate them all. He swerved just in time to miss an explosion right in front of them. Another blast went off to the right; the man went left. Another explosion in front of them. The man coolly steered right. It was almost as if he knew where the bombs were going to land.

Kazeel was pinned against the backseat during all this, stuck there like glue. What was attacking them exactly? An American B-52 letting out a string of satellite-guided bombs? Or a smaller U.S. fighter aircraft—an F-15 or F-16—dropping HARM missiles or cluster bombs? Or even an A-10 Thunderbolt firing its huge cannon
and
dropping bombs on them? These kinds of planes were known to roam over Afghanistan, and over Pakistan, too. Their aim was to look for people just like him. Had his cellphone finally done him in?

They turned a sharp corner about twelve hundred feet up the side of the mountain and found a huge outcrop of rock sticking out of its side. It seemed almost big enough to shield them from their aerial attacker. Here they sat for an agonizingly long minute. Then two. Then three. If the pilot couldn't see them, would the attacking plane just go away? Or would it drop more bombs in hope of bringing the whole mountain down on top of them?

Four minutes passed. Then five. Finally the driver had another phone conversation, then put the truck back in gear.

“Gone…fly away…bye, bye,” he called over his shoulder with a muffled laugh. “Up ahead…more snow. Help us to hide you….”

Kazeel couldn't believe it. He was simply astonished that he was still alive. Praise Allah, his faith had not been misplaced.

The Dragos had driven him through an air strike and not a single hair on his head had been harmed.

 

Afternoon turned to night, night into morning.

The three Range Rovers picked their way up and down many more scary, slippery mountains. The hours went agonizingly slowly throughout the stormy night, but as Kazeel was somewhat buoyed by their narrow, brilliant escape from the air strike, the rest of the ride was passable. Except for the loneliness; it became crushing about halfway through. He wasn't sure why the Dragos had put him alone in this car for the ride back. His driver could barely speak, never mind converse with him in Arabic. Uni of course was with Bahzi. Even if he was not, he and Kazeel never traveled together on land. But at the moment, in that darkest hour before dawn, climbing over yet another slippery, icy mountain, Kazeel wished his
shuka
were here, if just to keep him company.

He never did get to sleep. But as they finally ground into the last hour of their journey, Kazeel's demeanor had settled down considerably. He'd cheated death twice just today: in the ambush at Sat Put and during the air attack. Maybe he wouldn't have to worry about meeting his Maker again anytime soon.

 

They came over the top of a mountain named the Meshpi. The Pushi finally lay before them. But the Dragos in the first truck apparently noticed something was wrong and screeched to a halt. They could see the center of the Pushi from here. Indeed, they could see Kazeel's house.

It was in flames.

The second and third Drago trucks stopped with a screech as well. His driver stood on the brakes so abruptly, Kazeel nearly went through the windshield. Then he saw the flames for the first time and nearly threw up. Not until that moment did he realize how much his home meant to him.

What had happened? Another air attack? His driver's phone buzzed.

“Your friends' friends burn down your house,” the driver tried to tell him.

Kazeel just shook his head. Who were his friends' friends? And why would they want to destroy his home?

“Your old bodyguards,” the driver crudely clarified. “These are their friends. They are mad at you. For terminating them.”

Kazeel tried to sort out the man's verbal puzzle. His old bodyguards, the four men he'd taken out. They'd been residents of Ubusk, the village nearby. Was it their “friends” who'd stormed his mountain fortress and were now destroying it?

The driver came up with a pair of very powerful binoculars and handed them back to Kazeel. Once they were adjusted to his teary eyes, Kazeel could see dozens of armed men rampaging through his compound, burning and looting. They were carrying everything but torches and pitchforks. Kazeel was astonished. He couldn't believe the villagers would want to harm him. Not because they loved him—quite the opposite, because they feared him.

Or at least he thought they did.

Suddenly there was a great crash against the passenger side door. Kazeel turned to see the face of a very bloody man pressed up against the window. He looked like something from a horror movie, screaming and bleeding from hundreds of wounds. But it was his eyes that were the most frightening. They were positively bugging out. The man began saying something—but he suddenly disappeared, only to be replaced by another face, this one bloodier.

Now came the crash of explosions—not aerial bombs this time. Kazeel could hear sprays of shrapnel hitting the side of his vehicle; RPGs were landing all around them. Their sound was unmistakable. Then came the gunfire. Torrents of it. Again unmistakable, it was large-caliber and vicious.

Only then did it dawn on Kazeel what was happening. Despite their best efforts, they'd driven right into an ambush.

This is not a very good day,
Kazeel thought. And quite possibly, his last. He knew these armed men on the outside of the car, knew whose dirty hands were trying to get him. They were also Ubusks, people from the village near his mountain. A trademark red cloth worn to keep their hoods on was a dead giveaway. Erasing his former bodyguards so close to home was going to be the end of him, Kazeel was sure. He should have carried his former guards up into the hills and disposed of them quietly. It would have avoided the catastrophe he found himself in now.

Dozens of these people were swarming over his Range Rover. The vehicle ahead of him suddenly exploded in flames. The two Drago bodyguards tumbled out just a second before the truck was blown apart.

Kazeel's driver stood on the brakes again. He shifted the truck into neutral, but he was racing the engine madly. The way in front of them was now blocked. Kazeel frantically turned to see the vehicle behind them explode into flames as well. The crowd of furious villagers began swarming over it, even though many were catching their clothes on fire.

Kazeel turned forward again.

They were trapped.

The next thing he knew, the door closest to him flew open. The sounds of the ambush flooded in. Gunfire, RPGs going off, louder, more intense explosions. Above it all, the screams of those attacking his convoy.

Kazeel expected hundreds of hands to reach in, to grab him, to tear him limb from limb, then pull him in pieces into hell with them. He was surprised then when two black gloves reached in and clamped down on his shoulders and an instant later he was literally dragged out of the backseat. It was one of the Dragos. The biggest one of all. There was a tremendous explosion close by. The concussion was enormous. Yet Kazeel could feel himself being whisked away. Indeed, his feet never touched the ground. Bullets were zinging all around him. Explosions were going off everywhere. This was combat—madness and fire. It was the closest that Kazeel the superterrorist had ever come to it. Still the Dragos were carrying him through it.

Another huge blast went off. Kazeel was unable to see, unable to breathe. He felt another pair of hands on him, and together two Dragos ran him off the road and threw him down the side of the mountain. Kazeel went tumbling head over heels. There were many boulders and trees on the way down; how he wasn't killed by colliding with one of them he would never know. It seemed like he was falling forever.

Finally he stopped tumbling and hit something soft, sparing him any broken bones. He'd landed in a pool of mud, moss, and snow hard by a raging mountain stream. Kazeel had lifted his head from the muck, amazed at the luck of his soft landing, when one of the Dragos slammed into him. He, too, had rolled down the hill. Then another Chechyan came down on top of them. Then another. And another.

By the time Kazeel lifted his face from the muck a second time, the Dragos had formed a defensive perimeter around him. He was pummeled and bleeding and was now soaked to the skin. Yet somehow Kazeel was
still
alive.

But for how long? Hundreds of armed men were rushing down the slope toward them. Many more were converging on them from the north and south. Apparently the entire village of Ubusk had turned out for this massacre. The Dragos were scanning the terrain immediately around them, looking for a way out. But there was none. They were surrounded.

Kazeel collapsed back into the cold stream. The Dragos…Praise Allah, their bravery and fighting skills were beyond compare. But to what end? Their valor and courage were simply putting off the inevitable. Cruel death, for all of them, was just seconds away.

“We will never get out of this, my brothers,” Kazeel told them in despair.

But one replied gruffly: “We have a way….”

Then this man slammed him to the cold mud again. “Just stay down!”