Private Wars

turned to the boy, and he could tell she was speaking to him, and that infuriated him even more.

Then, to his horror, midway across the bridge, they stopped.

They stopped.

CHAPTER 50

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0802 Hours (GMT+5:00)

“Good God,” Riess muttered, “why doesn’t she just carry him?”

Tower didn’t speak. Instead, it was the radio that squawked, as if in response, and then a voice came on, speaking in Uzbek, the same voice Riess had heard before.

“Baloo, Ikki, respond.”

Riess came off the binoculars, watched Tower grab the radio, then glare at him. Tower stabbed his free hand out the front of the van, in the direction of the bridge.

“Keep your eyes on them, dammit! I need to know if anything changes.”

“What’s going on?”

“Watch the fucking bridge, Chuck!”

Riess went back to looking through the binoculars, finding Tara-not-Tracy once again, still gripping the boy’s hand, still walking steadily along with him. Their progress was painfully slow, governed by the little boy’s inadequate stride.

“Baloo, this is Ikki, please respond.”

“Go ahead, Ikki.”

“We are in position and holding. Status?”

“Shere Khan and Mowgli are making the crossing, stand by.” Riess heard Tower move slightly. “Where are they?”

“Halfway,” Riess said. “They’re halfway—Shit!”

“What?”

“They’ve stopped!” Riess came off the binoculars again, looking to Tower. “They’ve fucking stopped!”

Tower raised the radio. “Ikki, Baloo. Direct me.”

“North point two kilometers, then east. We will meet you.”

With his free hand, and much to Riess’ distress, Tower turned the key in the ignition, starting up the van. “En route. Out.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Riess demanded.

“What we came here to do, Chuck.”

Tower pulled the gearshift, dropping the van into drive, and they lurched forward, accelerating and turning all at once. Riess felt himself pulled to the left, twisted around against his seatbelt, trying to keep an eye on the bridge.

“We can’t just—”

“Sure we can,” Tower cut in. “What are we going to do—drive out onto the bridge and pick them up?”

“They’re out there, they’re just hanging out there!”

“Relax, it’s in hand.”

Riess fell back into his seat, started to open his mouth again, then shut it. She wasn’t moving. Tara-not-Tracy wasn’t moving, and Tower hadn’t at all been surprised she wasn’t.

“It was a signal. Between you and her, it was a signal.”

Tower hit the brakes, hard, and the van slid into a turn, then hopped off the road onto a thread of dirt trail. The road and the van weren’t a good pairing, and Riess grabbed at the dash, trying to keep himself stable in his seat.

“You’re learning,” Tower told him.

Then the van hit a slope that came out of nowhere, and the vehicle pitched forward, and suddenly Riess was looking at two Uzbek Army APCs, and Tower was slamming on the brakes again, slowing them. Even as he did, the APCs started up, and the radio spoke once more.

“Ikki, Baloo. Standing by.”

“Let’s do it,” Tower told the radio.

The APCs rolled forward, accelerating, and Tower slid in behind them, and Riess’ mind raced, trying to fit the pieces together, and then suddenly he saw it, understood why Tower had come. Stepan, Tara-not-Tracy, Sevara . . . none of them had anything to do with it.

“Zahidov,” he said. “Zahidov is Kaa.”

“Bingo.”

“Why’s he here, what’s that bastard doing here?”

“Unless I’m wrong, he’s going to fire a missile into Afghanistan.”

“He’ll start a fucking war!”

“Nah, it’ll just be a messy diplomatic incident. Don’t overstate it, Chuck.”

Riess shook his head, half to clear it, half to try to dispel his disbelief. “Where’d he get the fucking missile?”

Tower, still concentrating on driving the van over the rough terrain, started to answer, but then the van burst over the crest of the hill. Riess saw the helicopter, an Uzbek Army bird, covered with camouflage netting, and past it, the man sprawled on the ground, looking down at the river and the bridge and Afghanistan.

Zahidov turned at the sound of their approach, his expression empty in its confusion. The van came down and skidded to a stop, and Riess was thrown against his door, but he didn’t feel it, because his whole world had become one man, what that man held in his hands.

Zahidov was twisting about, back to face the bridge, and from the APCs, Uzbek soldiers were pouring forth, and there was gunfire, all of it together, and everything happening together. Zahidov flopped and flailed, hit by several bursts at once, his body trying to follow each bullet and instead able to follow none. He fell, and the weapon he’d held in his hands tumbled free.

“Motherfucker,” Tower said, reaching for his radio.