Savage Deadlock

Brognola proved the worth of this statement, as he kept Malik away from the restaurant for two and a half hours while Bolan went over the report carefully, closely questioning Sandila about every point raised. The general answered with candor and provided insight that Bolan stored away for future use. Then they turned to the topographical map. Sandila ran him through the general terrain and the known movements of both the militant cells that roamed the hills and the PWLA. He outlined possible routes of progress and points of encampment, and Bolan took mental note and ensured that the general added notation to a copy of the file that he would send to the soldier’s smartphone.

“What might help you, Mr. Stone, you are welcome to,” Sandila said when they were finished. “Yet it would benefit no one if Major Malik had access to these extra notes. He would not betray his country, but there are those around him who would not necessarily see the eradication of Dr. Yasmin as a betrayal.”

“I understand, General,” Bolan said. “Believe me, it’s not just your nation that has these issues.”

By the time Brognola returned with Malik, the two men in the private room were exchanging small talk. Malik, seeing this, grunted and raised his eyebrows as if to indicate his disgust at the willingness of underlings to slack off.

When the two Pakistani intelligence officers had departed to pick up the military flight that would take them back to their consulate in New York City, Brognola leaned back in his chair.

“Got everything you need, Striker?”

“General Sandila is a good soldier,” Bolan said. “Thorough. Uses his head, too.”

“I’ll prepare a route to take you out to Lahore, and from there you’ll be picked up by Malik’s men and taken to Quetta. It’s still a long hike from there to the region where Yasmin went missing, but at least you can pick up ordnance and your team.”

“About that,” Bolan said. “If Sandila is right, then I might be better flying solo at some point. That won’t sit well with Malik, though, and he could cause ripples.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Brognola replied, shaking his head. “Listen, Striker, I could see how Sandila felt about him, and after a couple of hours listening to the man, I understand.”

Bolan sighed. “As long as we’re on the same page, Hal.”

Brognola shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, about that, Striker...”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I think I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”

Brognola looked up at the ceiling. “It’s like this. Because the Pakistan NCA approached the U.S. military directly, rather than coming through Foreign Affairs, there was an extra layer of interference to run before the matter came to me. An extra layer that had something to say, and doesn’t want to relinquish that say.”

“Bureaucratic bull, Hal. It has nothing to do with me. I have a job to do, and although there’s nothing wrong with our military, they’re on display and there are things that they just can’t be seen to do that I can.”

Brognola grimaced. “I understand, Striker. Hell, I agree with you. But—and this is crucial—they have a very good case for keeping an eye on this. Yasmin may not want to come willingly. Okay, so you could just extract her like she was a captive, but that might make further negotiation with her difficult for both the Pakistani administration and for ourselves. However, what if there was someone with you who had worked alongside her at MIT? And what if that person was also female, and so more likely to be able to relate to the issues that drove Yasmin to such action?”

“Come on, Hal—it’s not about her being a woman, but are you seriously suggesting I take a civilian into what might as well be a war zone?”

Brognola coughed. “That’s the thing, Striker—the woman I have in mind isn’t a civilian. She’s a soldier. A serving officer. A little like General Sandila, she has a physics degree as well as a military rank. She’s a captain.”

“What kind of combat experience does she have?”

“Two tours of Afghanistan. She’s familiar with that part of the globe. Even if she hasn’t actually been into Balochistan, she does at least have an understanding of the territory, both physical and political.”

“It’s better, but it’s still not ideal.”

“It’s a done deal, Striker. She’s here, waiting. Captain Tamara Davis.”

Chapter Four (#uf3dc4511-6f18-5751-b3e7-c1633781a7e4)

It happened on the sixteenth day. Maybe she was tiring of the wait and her mind was wandering? Maybe she was beginning to realize that idealistic dreams were one thing, but actually making them happen required a skill set that was completely alien to her? Whatever the reason, Yasmin had let her vigilance slip, and it was disastrous for the whole group.

Yasmin had been on night patrol. Along with Benazir Suri, a former politics student who had become radicalized while studying the Red Army Faction and believed that some of their tactics in 1970s Germany could be applied to Pakistan in the 2010s. It was dubious reasoning, in Yasmin’s opinion, but perhaps it was a measure of both her naivety and her desperate desire for change.

For both women, the harsh reality of living in a camp in the hills had been a wake-up call. Adjusting to rough living after a wealthy upbringing and academic life was proving to be hard. It might have seemed a little more worthwhile if their movement was gathering steam, but several of the women in the group—the villagers who had run from virtual slavery and who had the knowledge and skills that Suri and Yasmin sorely lacked—were frustratingly taciturn and patient. They were content to sit and wait.

The terrain around them was not the lush riverside that Yasmin had been used to. As they traveled farther from the river’s lifeblood, the streams became trickles that snaked in and out of rock, running too deep in places to be easily accessed. The steeply rising crags of rock made it hard to gain sustenance from the ground or seek shelter from the extremes of heat and cold. The moss, lichens and tufts of wiry grasses offered little for the emaciated goats that roamed the area. The few villages in the region scraped an existence off the land and the goats that young shepherds nervously gathered in, keen to avoid the wrath of any bandits who found camp and fought their desultory battles in the unforgiving landscape.

As the sun fell from the sky that evening, Yasmin and Suri started to tramp across the rocky paths and ravines that dotted the hillsides. There were ample hiding spots, but that also meant there were ample places for enemies to conceal themselves. Once the light had faded from the sky, the two women used only the moon and stars to guide them, perpetually praying for the night to remain cloudless as their eyes and senses had not had the lifetime of adjustment to the dark that the hill-born women had.

As they picked their way along the designated route, which circled the camp at a radius of half a klick, give or take the odd hundred meters to detour around impassable rock falls or clusters, they talked about what they wanted, and about their frustrations, punctuated by cursing as they stumbled, turned their ankles, and gashed and grazed themselves on terrain that seemed to mock their very presence.

“If we’re going to do anything other than rot out here and wait for a bunch of men to come and try to smack us down, then we need to take some kind of action soon,” Suri moaned as she sat on a rock and massaged an ankle. Even though they both wore stout walking boots and had their ankles bound for support and padding, they were still limping at the end of each night’s patrol.

Yasmin was small and compact. Her father used to worry that she might be physically weak, but she was nimble and wiry. Suri, on the other hand, was tall and slim in a way that Yasmin had seen English writers describe as “willowy”—almost as though she had grown too tall for her own strength. Yasmin doubted that her companion could survive in the wild for long. She herself was finding it hard, but Yasmin would bet on herself for the long haul once she had adjusted.

“I know why you want to act,” she said with meaning, “and I want to, as well. But the question is what kind of action? It has to be something that counts. We’re small in number, so we could be easily overwhelmed. We need to make an impact that will rally others to our cause and put us on the international stage.”

Suri snorted. “Maybe we should pretend we’re peasant girls and get ourselves shot in the head.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just tired, cold and pissed off.”

“We all are.” Yasmin grinned. “But we do have one major advantage. The NCA will know by now what I took. Even if they write me off personally and get another research scientist, they know what I’m running around with, and that’ll scare the living crap out of them. They’re not going to risk charging in and shooting without asking, just in case one of their trigger-happy boys has an accident.”

“Well, yes,” Suri said slowly. “Of course we can use it as a bargaining tool, and of course it gives us some protection. The problem is, if we just sit on our asses with it, they have no demands to meet.”

Yasmin sighed. “It would be good if we could agree on what the demands are and actually move this forward.”

Suri laughed. “You sound like you’ve spent too long working for the government. ‘Move this forward...’”

Yasmin punched her friend in the shoulder. “Get your lazy ass up and let’s get going. The last thing we want is to be caught standing around like a pair of idiots.”

Suri dragged herself to her feet, swearing softly as she put pressure on her aching ankle, and followed in Yasmin’s wake.

* * *

IFTIKHAR AND AYUB had not been expecting to hit the payload when they had taken this sortie. Their ten-man militant cell was twenty klicks to the west, deep in the foothills of the peaks that separated Pakistan from Afghanistan and Iran. The range was long and—if not impassable—accessible only to those who had spent years learning its contours. Their group was part of a supply chain that took food and ordnance from one country to another, feeding the needs of rebel factions on each side. Their pipeline was partially supplied by sympathetic Pakistani military men, mostly in quartermasters sections, who were discontented with the Westernization of their country and wanted the government to become more Islamist. This gave the rebels on both sides of the divide access to new Chinese and American hardware, rather than the aging Russian guns and South American copies of Russian weaponry they had been forced to rely on in the past few decades.

It also meant that the rebels running this pipeline kept their ears to the ground about any developments in weapons transportation, new shipments that were to arrive in Pakistan and any potentially new hardware leaks.

Inevitably, despite the blanket of security that Major Malik had attempted to cast over the disappearance of Shazana Yasmin and General Sandila’s subsequent discovery of the missing fissionable material, rumors had surfaced that could not be dispelled. Some of these had reached the Islamist groups and rebels in the foothills, and they had added the small physicist and any potential package she may be carrying to their checklist. It was known that the PWLA was hiding out in the region. The women were already on the checklist, as their very existence was an affront to the ideals and morals of the Islamists. Yet they were a low priority since they presented no real threat.

Now, with the knowledge that Yasmin was likely to be carrying nuclear material, the PWLA had moved up the list from an irritant to a group of interest.

For the past week, Iftikhar and Ayub’s cell had been running missions across the plateaus and ravines of the range, trying to locate the PWLA camp. If they could pinpoint their target before any of the other rebels or Taliban units in the region, then they would hold the whip hand.

Word of Yasmin’s supposed capture by the PWLA was whispered, and her location sought. Iftikhar and Ayub had, so they thought, drawn the short straw in having to take the sortie that carried them farthest from their base camp. Now, they felt differently.

They had become aware of the two women as they scuttled across an outcrop of jagged rock that overhung a narrow pathway cut into a hill. The rock formed a kind of roof that seemed to peter out into thin air before achieving a covering arc, and looked far too fragile to take the weight of a man. In truth, it had stood this way for centuries, and the thick strata at the base end gave it a tensile strength that its appearance belied. Iftikhar had lain flat across it when he heard the rattle of loosened rock along the trail followed by unholy cursing in a high, female voice. Holding his breath, gesturing at Ayub to stay back, he had lain still and listened to the exchange between the two women. He couldn’t believe their luck. At the end of a cold, hard and seemingly pointless mission, they had lucked into a situation that would put their cell in a prime position and boost their own standing among their compatriots.

Now they had to play this right. Iftikhar clung flat to the rock as the two women passed beneath him. He waited as they continued down the narrow passage for a few hundred meters, then he crawled back to the ridge where Ayub lay waiting. Iftikhar could see from Ayub’s face that he, too, had been listening. Without speaking, the two men communicated that they should follow the women at a distance in the hope that they would lead them to the PWLA camp.

Silently, the two men set off in pursuit of their prey. The women were obviously inexperienced, and their clumsy attempts at keeping their progress quiet were almost laughable. Certainly, if the two rebels had made any noise of their own, it would have been masked by the sound the two women were generating as they blundered forward.

It soon became apparent that the women were on a regular patrol, and if nothing else, the circumscribed route would give the two rebels a fixed area in which to search for and track down the PWLA camp...if the women did not lead them directly there.