Running the Maze

Upon entering Afghan airspace, the Galaxy crew activated the Pacer Snow onboard defense system of flare dispensers and the antimissile warning system. Everyone straightened up, scratching and yawning, as the giant aircraft began its descent, then settled easily onto the runway at Kandahar and was guided to its parking ramp. Unloading began immediately after the clamshell doors spread open in the back, and the nose of the plane swung up and out of the way. The two Trident Marines walked down the rear ramp into the night chill and found a Humvee waiting to take them into the heavily guarded special operations section of the base.

Once in the building, Summers dialed a secure private number on her sat phone to give a coded confirmation of their arrival to the Lizard in Washington. Only code names were used. “Queen and Knight are in place.”

“Roger that, Queen,” replied Commander Freedman. “Shaky and Coastie arrive your location approximate twelve hundred.”

“Queen, out.”

She terminated the call. No names had been used, even on one of the most secure frequencies available. “Shaky” was an old nickname of Swanson’s that referred to his unusual habit of physically quaking after a particularly hard and heated battle, his way of releasing the self-imposed total lack of emotion during the fight. “Coastie” now applied to Beth Ledford.

“They are on their way and will be here by midday tomorrow,” Sybelle told Dawkins.

Double-Oh grunted approval. That gave them the rest of the night and all of the next day to prepare for the drop. “Let’s get some chow, then catch a few hours of sleep. I’m bushed.”

“How? Why? You didn’t do anything for the last twelve hours but sleep. You’re getting old, Master Gunny,” Summers said. “I was thinking more about going for a run. Stretch out the kinks.”

“You do what you gotta do, Ms. Lieutenant Colonel, ma’am. Act like some fool hoo- ah butter-bar second lieutenant if you want to. I, however, am wise beyond your tender years and am no longer tempted by such foolish things. I’ll meet you at our little plane at oh six hundred, well fed and fresh as a daisy.” He walked away.

* * *

THE DJINN GROWLED CONTENTEDLY, feeling strong and happy out in the air. He heard distant shouts and saw pinpoints of light flashing in the valley coming his way. Kneeling, he slathered mud over his naked body, from the top of his head to his toes, and the camouflage allowed him to slowly disappear into the blackness. Then he ran away, into the trees.

The valley seemed to be coming to life, with yells and brilliant cones of flashlight beams slashing the darkness, and he giggled as he circled onto the higher, rocky ground. The patrol went by below him. They were shouting and disorganized, strung out along the path and losing sight of each other, panting with effort. He descended behind them and followed unseen, picking up a short, thick tree branch for a weapon.

The last man in the Taliban column was fatter than the others and labored on the slippery slope, panting and falling farther behind until at last he gave up and slowed to a walk. As the patrol moved on, he called out that he had hurt his ankle and would catch up to them later. He sat on a smooth boulder to catch his breath, laid the AK-47 to the side, and lit a cigarette, drawing the harsh smoke into his lungs and exhaling with pleasure.

The Djinn was a few feet behind him, hidden in some brush and studying his target. The creature he was stalking was totally relaxed, immobile, and unaware. Rising in the shadows, the Djinn took two steps forward and swung the club as hard as he could. It slammed against the fighter’s ear so hard that it carried him off the big rock, and the Djinn leaped onto the dazed man and beat him to death. This is good. He stripped the victim. Warm clothing and a good weapon, and even some food in a pocket, with water in a metal container. Best of all, a dagger with a broad, curved blade in an elaborately decorated scabbard that hung from the ammunition belt around the blubbery waist alongside two hand grenades. He dressed, slipped on the sandals, and wiggled his toes. Much better. The rifle was undamaged, the knife sharp. Now I can really hunt. Where? More lights were pockmarking the valley, coming down from the crest and spreading out. He cut the throat of the corpse for good measure, then headed up toward the lights.

The patrol leader had finally stopped and counted his men, finding only five instead of the six. “Who is missing?” he asked.

The Taliban looked at each other, and one finally spoke. “It is Akhtar again. He can never keep up on a climb. Too old and fat.”

“Then you go back and get him. We will wait for two minutes. When you come back, you had better have the fat fool with you.”

While the other four Taliban fighters plopped down by the side of the path to rest, the one picked to fetch Akhtar stared hard back at the patrol leader, his insides burning with hatred at being told what to do by a worthless Pakistani. He finally obeyed, cursing beneath his breath.

He walked back down the trail for thirty seconds before he saw the shadowy shape coming toward him, the eyes cast down to watch his footing. “By your mother, Akhtar, you are a useless dog! Come on. The rest of the patrol is waiting for us.” He turned on his heel and started back.

The Djinn slammed the stock of the AK-47 into the man’s head and heard a satisfying crunch. He fell on top of the stunned man, with the dagger already out and plunging into the neck, and he was rewarded with a shower of thick arterial blood as he sawed off the head. He picked it up by the ears and smiled at the dead face, then tossed it away, watching it bounce down toward the river. He wiped the knife clean on his own tunic, slid it back in the scabbard, and snapped off the rifle’s safety.

He came upon the others gathered beside the dirt pathway, and he ran at them, screaming and pulling the trigger, spraying out bursts of automatic gunfire. The surprised fighters attempted to roll away as the maniacal figure went charging through their midst without breaking stride, and they did not notice the bouncing grenade he left behind until it exploded.

The patrol leader got off some rounds that hit nothing, then grabbed his radio, just as Sergeant Hafiz came on to demand a status report. “He just came out of nowhere and went straight through us, Sergeant. We have unknown casualties. I’m leaving these people and going after him myself. It makes no sense, but he was headed your way, right into our strength.”

“Very well,” Hafiz responded. “We will clean up the guard detail after we catch him. Fire your weapon into the air, and drive him toward us.”

The Djinn heard the gunshots and saw the lights and stopped to drink some water from his canteen. Then he emptied the remaining liquid over his head to clear his eyes. A sudden weariness struck him like a wave, along with dizziness and nausea, and he leaned over to vomit. He brushed his hand across his sour mouth, his thoughts tumbling about, his muscles aching from so much unaccustomed exercise and running. He needed to rest for a time. Not long. Then he would resume. There was excellent hunting tonight. He put down the rifle, the ammunition packets, and the remaining grenade and staggered away, singing a little song from childhood.

The faint voice of his mother spoke in his head, telling him that safety was not far away: a door into the ground, his entrance to the underworld. It took five struggling minutes for him to reach it, and fatigue had an iron grasp on his legs as he dragged along. He pulled the hidden door open, then closed it carefully behind him.

A cavern gaped before him, and a map appeared in his mind in flashes of memory. Safety lay down one corridor, up one level, and around two corners. The passages were empty as he plodded through, leaving a track of muddy footsteps and, where he brushed against the walls, dark bloodstains. A doorway that he recognized appeared, and he pushed it open, almost ready to fall. The bed was so far away, across miles of floor, but was so welcoming that he managed to stagger to it; then he lay down and closed his eyes, exhaled twice, and was asleep.

15

KYLE AND SIR JEFF stayed up most of the night as the Vagabond worked its way through the sea. Neither was happy, because the target in Pakistan presented more questions than answers. The bridge stood there like a monolith, silent and brooding, and the mission to check it out was unlikely to resolve all of the riddles.

“There has to be something else in play, Kyle,” Jeff said. “There obviously is some connection between the