grip, to keep the thickness of the thing, with its Chinese scope clamped up on top in some sort of steel frame, at a minimum. It meant that when he came to shoot, he’d have to take a second to rip the mag from its bonds of tape, quickly peel any filaments of tape away, slam it into the mag well, then pull and release the bolt as he rose and put himself in the offhand shooting position.
He didn’t need to tell himself, but he always did anyway, a kind of mantra: breathe, relax, let sight settle, focus on crosshairs not target, press not pull, follow through, pin trigger. He’d done it a hundred thousand times.
He entered the hotel. It was ancient, somewhat Anglified in its shabby dignity and brass fixtures, and in pre-Soviet invasion days had been a haven for the hippies who came to rural Afghanistan to enjoy the local crops unmonitored by police agencies. The Reds had turned it into a troop barracks, and when the Taliban kicked them out it had languished, as under those stern boys not a lot of traveling had been done in the country. Since, er, “liberation,” it had enjoyed substantially more prosperity, and now and then a particularly adventurous journalist or TV crew would stay there, in for an interview with the Beheader, who sometimes kept his appointments and sometimes didn’t.
Ray slid up to a desk and was greeted by the suspicious eyes of a clerk and he abated that suspicion by sliding over a 250-rupee note and his beautifully forged Afghan identity card, which had him down as Farzan Babur.
No words were necessary, nor were signatures. The fellow took the note and returned thirty-five rupees in change, and pushed over a key, which wore a brass tag with the number 232 on it. Ray bowed humbly, took the key and the dough, and sloughed to the stairway.
“Got him,” said Tony Z-for-Zemke, a forces washout who’d done nine years for Graywolf Security before being cashiered out on the same surrendering-pilgrim gig that had gotten Bogier fired. Since there were no radios, Tony Z had come running across the street, dodging bikes and donkeys. “Mick, I got him. Definite. A ‘limp,’ some kind of awkward thing under his robes if you looked. Clearly had a load on under all the Izzie shit he was wearing.”
“See his face? White guy, marine?”
“Scruffy black beard, face held low, maybe a little browner than you’d expect. Maybe he’s Asian or Mexican or some weird shit like that. You know, diversity’s the thing these days. Not a native, his skin wasn’t rough enough.”
“Okay,” said Mick, “get the other guys and fall back to that cafe. I’ll make the call.”
Mick slipped back, tried to find some privacy on the busy roadway, couldn’t, slipped into a street that led nowhere except to stalls of Afghan wares—the kind of crap these people sold—felt good when one of his Izzies came up to offer screening, and got the phone out, unlimbered the antenna.
“Yes, yes?” MacGyver demanded.
“We got him.”
“You’re positive?”
“You didn’t give us a pic. What I have is a non-Afghani in tribal garb and turban with apparently a bad leg heading into the hotel, just as predicted. He had some kind of shit under his robes, obviously the rifle. My guy couldn’t get a close-up look-see, but all the indicators are there.”
“A white man? American white?”
“Ahhh—” Mick’s doubts came out.
“Well?”
“My guy said maybe he was a bit brown. Could have been Hispanic or maybe even Asian. He—”
“Bingo,” said Mr. MacGyver. “Now get undercover.”
2ND RECON BATTALION HQ
FOB WINCHESTER
S-2 BUNKER
ZABUL PROVINCE
SOUTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN
1904 Hours
Heeere’s Johnny,” said Exec.
“I am goddamned,” said Colonel Laidlaw. “I am getting that sergeant a medal.”
The cruciform locator on the screen centered on downtown Qalat, exactly at the site—authenticated breathlessly from maps by a triumphant S-2 who’d gotten Agency coop by calling in every favor he was owed,
He didn’t need to tell himself, but he always did anyway, a kind of mantra: breathe, relax, let sight settle, focus on crosshairs not target, press not pull, follow through, pin trigger. He’d done it a hundred thousand times.
He entered the hotel. It was ancient, somewhat Anglified in its shabby dignity and brass fixtures, and in pre-Soviet invasion days had been a haven for the hippies who came to rural Afghanistan to enjoy the local crops unmonitored by police agencies. The Reds had turned it into a troop barracks, and when the Taliban kicked them out it had languished, as under those stern boys not a lot of traveling had been done in the country. Since, er, “liberation,” it had enjoyed substantially more prosperity, and now and then a particularly adventurous journalist or TV crew would stay there, in for an interview with the Beheader, who sometimes kept his appointments and sometimes didn’t.
Ray slid up to a desk and was greeted by the suspicious eyes of a clerk and he abated that suspicion by sliding over a 250-rupee note and his beautifully forged Afghan identity card, which had him down as Farzan Babur.
No words were necessary, nor were signatures. The fellow took the note and returned thirty-five rupees in change, and pushed over a key, which wore a brass tag with the number 232 on it. Ray bowed humbly, took the key and the dough, and sloughed to the stairway.
“Got him,” said Tony Z-for-Zemke, a forces washout who’d done nine years for Graywolf Security before being cashiered out on the same surrendering-pilgrim gig that had gotten Bogier fired. Since there were no radios, Tony Z had come running across the street, dodging bikes and donkeys. “Mick, I got him. Definite. A ‘limp,’ some kind of awkward thing under his robes if you looked. Clearly had a load on under all the Izzie shit he was wearing.”
“See his face? White guy, marine?”
“Scruffy black beard, face held low, maybe a little browner than you’d expect. Maybe he’s Asian or Mexican or some weird shit like that. You know, diversity’s the thing these days. Not a native, his skin wasn’t rough enough.”
“Okay,” said Mick, “get the other guys and fall back to that cafe. I’ll make the call.”
Mick slipped back, tried to find some privacy on the busy roadway, couldn’t, slipped into a street that led nowhere except to stalls of Afghan wares—the kind of crap these people sold—felt good when one of his Izzies came up to offer screening, and got the phone out, unlimbered the antenna.
“Yes, yes?” MacGyver demanded.
“We got him.”
“You’re positive?”
“You didn’t give us a pic. What I have is a non-Afghani in tribal garb and turban with apparently a bad leg heading into the hotel, just as predicted. He had some kind of shit under his robes, obviously the rifle. My guy couldn’t get a close-up look-see, but all the indicators are there.”
“A white man? American white?”
“Ahhh—” Mick’s doubts came out.
“Well?”
“My guy said maybe he was a bit brown. Could have been Hispanic or maybe even Asian. He—”
“Bingo,” said Mr. MacGyver. “Now get undercover.”
2ND RECON BATTALION HQ
FOB WINCHESTER
S-2 BUNKER
ZABUL PROVINCE
SOUTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN
1904 Hours
Heeere’s Johnny,” said Exec.
“I am goddamned,” said Colonel Laidlaw. “I am getting that sergeant a medal.”
The cruciform locator on the screen centered on downtown Qalat, exactly at the site—authenticated breathlessly from maps by a triumphant S-2 who’d gotten Agency coop by calling in every favor he was owed,
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