The Shadow Patrol

Trespassing. Emergency Vehicles Only,” a sign warned. To his east, a fence blocked the end of the runway from the perimeter road that circled the base. This far over, planes would be hundreds of feet above him on takeoff. A C-130 lumbered overhead, giving him some cover, as he headed across the runway to the southern taxiway.

Now he just needed to find the big jet to Frankfurt. One left every night, usually around two a.m., filled with soldiers heading home for their leaves. The departure time seemed lousy, but it got guys to Frankfurt in time for morning connections to the United States.

Unlike big civilian airports, Bagram didn’t have jetways. To board, guys walked out a fenced area at the back of the terminal and across the tarmac and up a mobile staircase and into the jet. Francesca planned to park the ATV near the terminal. When the guys left the terminal to board, he’d join the line. In the darkness, he would be just another soldier. No one would notice him or question his presence.

Before he got to the stairs, he’d find a cargo handler and ask whether he could stow his bag in the hold, because it was so big and heavy. The handler, most likely a contractor, would take the bag and give him a gate check. Francesca would put it in his pocket and walk back into the terminal and disappear. Tomorrow he’d catch a Space-A back to Moqor. No one would ever know he’d been here. What happened to the bag in Frankfurt wasn’t his concern. He had never asked, but he imagined someone on ramp duty there would pick it up.

HE DIDN’T REGISTER the headlights until they were almost on him. An SUV had edged onto the taxiway, blocked his path. Now he saw the black letters on the side: Military Police. He wondered whether he’d popped up on the ground radar the controllers used to track the taxiway, or if the stop was just bad luck.

No matter. The military police at Bagram were basically crossing guards. He’d make sure they saw he was Delta, be on his way. The cop on the passenger side got out, put a flashlight on him. Francesca raised a hand to shield himself from the glare and started to stand. The cop put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t move. What’s your name?”

“Chief Warrant Officer Daniel Francesca.”

“You come over the runway just now?”

“The far edge over there, Officer. I thought I was okay. I’m sorry.”

“Bet you are. Did you see the sign?”

“Sign?”

“The big sign that says emergency vehicles only. No trespassing. That sign. Did you see it?”

This guy was a real hard-ass. Francesca felt his anger rising. Another jet soared into the night. He cooled himself down, waited until it passed.

“Like I said, I’m sorry. Even us bug-eaters make mistakes. I’m supposed to be going to Frankfurt tonight, start my leave, and my ride was delayed and I didn’t think I would make it.”

The cop moved his flashlight to Francesca’s backpack. “What’s in the bag?”

“The usual.”

“I’m going to need to see it.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

The cop’s hand was on his holster now. “What did you say?”

“I said, sure, Officer.”

Francesca knew what was going to happen. He should have been looking for a way out, but he wasn’t. The knife on his leg would do fine. He’d never killed anyone with a knife. He was looking forward to it. Military, civilian, friend, enemy, he didn’t care anymore. Let’s do this. He felt his pulse beating down to his fingertips. He had the sensation whenever he put a target in his sights.

He tossed the bag on the ground. The cop bent down for it. Francesca dropped his hand toward his knife—

AND THE TAHOE HONKED, long and loud.

The officer wagged a finger at Francesca, Don’t move, and hurried back to the Tahoe. The two cops had a short conversation, and then the first walked back to him. “Your lucky day. A Gator”—an armored vehicle—“just pancaked two joggers. Even stupider than you, running at night. We got called to find witnesses. I told my partner you’re full of it, you don’t belong out here and I want to take you in, but I got outvoted. So good-bye and get lost.”

The cop hustled back to the Tahoe. It rolled off, lights flashing. Francesca watched it disappear. He touched the gas, headed the four-wheeler toward the passenger terminal. The cop was right. His lucky day. Even if he had killed both officers cleanly and ditched the bag, he’d have left a trail. His fellow passengers on the Chinook would have remembered that he hadn’t left with them. The mechanics had seen him on the cart. The military investigators would have pulled the Space-A files at Moqor from the trash and his name would jump out.

So, as he steered along the south taxiway, Francesca knew he should have been relieved. Instead, as his pulse slowed and the electricity in his fingertips faded, he felt nothing but disappointment.

8

KABUL

Wells rode in the front passenger seat of a crew-cab pickup in the shark-tooth mountains east of Jalalabad. The man beside him had a long black beard, a Talib beard. Wells had a beard, too, dyed blue. He wondered whether he was a prisoner. But the other man ignored him. In the distance explosions thumped hollowly. The pickup came over a rise and Wells saw an M1 tank blocking the road. Its turret swung toward them. The pickup’s driver grinned at Wells. Are you ready? He gunned the engine—

And Wells opened his eyes and found himself at the Ariana. The explosions were knocks on his door. “John? It’s Gabe Yergin.” The station’s operations chief, its third in command. “Wondered if you wanted lunch.”

Wells dragged himself up, saw a bloodshot-eyed zombie in the mirror. Getting too old for this. That thought came to him more and more. “I’ll come by your office.”

“Sure.”

The station’s senior officers worked on the second floor. A thick-necked guard buzzed Wells into a corridor whose walls were lined with high-res satellite maps of Kabul and Kandahar — as well as the Pakistani cities of Quetta and Peshawar. Proof, not that any was needed, that this war didn’t stop at the border.

“Here.” Yergin poked his head from a doorway like a groundhog checking for his shadow. He was thirty-five going on fifty, a small man with a deep widow’s peak and puffy black circles under his eyes. Even after he sat beside Wells on the couch, he seemed to be in motion. He rocked forward, drumming his fingers against his jeans. He produced a pack of Marlboros from his jacket, lit up, dragged deep. The nicotine worked its magic immediately. Yergin relaxed, sat back against the cushions.

“Let me guess,” Wells said. “You didn’t smoke until you got here.”

“Been smoking since college. Every six months or so I quit, but it never takes. Hasn’t anyone ever told you? There’s something very satisfying in meeting an addiction over and over. You like the posters?” Posters for Transformers and The Godfather hung behind Yergin’s desk.

“Sure.”

“The Godfather, best movie ever made.”

“And Transformers?”

“I could tell you it’s a metaphor for the way we can never trust the Afghans, they’re always changing. Truth is, it’s an excuse to put up a picture of Megan Fox.”

“I’m sure the women in the office love that.”

“You’d be surprised. So Vinny sent you.”

“So much for small talk, huh?”