rolled with the wisecrack. “Fine by me,” he said. “As long as you do it in shifts. Just don’t start asking for maid service and mints on your pillows.”
“Fair enough.”
Wethers, a one-time Berkeley cybernetics professor with neither the knack nor patience for small talk, cleared his throat, eager to steer focus back to more pressing concerns.
“Something came up at the briefing, I take it,” he said to Brognola. “Does it have to do with Striker and the Taliban?”
Brognola nodded, shedding his trench coat and draping it over the back of Tokaido’s chair.
SOG’s two commando units, Able Team and Phoenix Force, invariably handled missions as a group, but Bolan’s preference, as it had been when he first set out for Afghanistan, was to work alone, knowing the crew back in Virginia would cover his back. Brognola intended to do all he could to see that the Farm held up its end of the bargain. He quickly passed along news of the Safed Koh ambush, concluding with the update Price had received earlier from Bolan.
“We’ve had no luck rounding up anyone who left the attack site,” he said. “The feeling is they’ve managed to slip back into Pakistan, most likely with O’Brien’s body.”
“By Pakistan I take it you mean the tribal region,” Delahunt said.
“That’s always been our premise, and there’s nothing here to suggest otherwise,” Brognola said. “The ambushers we were able to recover are with Army Intelligence at Bagram. They’re going through personal effects while the bodies are autopsied to see if there’s some dietary tip-off as to where they might have been holed up.”
“Dietary tip-off?” Kurtzman asked. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Different tribes, different crops,” Brognola said. “If any of them have undigested food in their system, it could be as good as finding fingerprints in a homicide case.”
“‘Alimentary, my dear Watson,’” Delahunt said, invoking a Sherlock Holmesian British accent. When Wethers shot her a stern glance, she told him, “C’mon, Hunt, a little levity won’t grind things to a halt, okay?”
“Does that make it another one of our ‘union perks’?”
Delahunt laughed. “Hey, what do you know, Hunt made a funny.”
“Okay, people,” Brognola interceded. “Can we get back to the task at hand? Following up on this ambush is just our first step. There’s a wider picture we need to be looking at, as well.”
Brognola paced before his colleagues as he quickly reiterated what he’d told Price earlier regarding concerns about the ease with which the Afghan National Army had been striking lopsided blows against the Taliban while the joint U.S.-NATO effort was being stymied at every turn. When he stressed how the ANA’s solo triumphs coincided with growing calls for Western pullouts, all three members of the cyberteam agreed on the need to look for another explanation besides a run of good luck on the part of the home team.
Kurtzman, the crew’s wheelchair-bound leader, was the first to respond after Brognola had completed the briefing. “I’ll start culling sat-cam databases for signs of Taliban movement along the border,” he said.
“Good,” Brognola said. “Also see what you can do about getting one of the orbitals to make a few extra passes over that whole stretch of mountains. BASIC would probably be your best bet, but use my name and pull in markers with the National Reconnaissance Office or some of the private firms if you have to.”
“Will do.”
“You didn’t bring it up,” Wethers said, “but shouldn’t we also be looking into how the Taliban knew where our ops teams were positioned? From the sounds of it, they were right on target when they came out of that tunnel.”
“Not to mention they were breathing down Striker’s neck from the get-go up on that ridgeline,” Delahunt added. “I’m smelling a tip-off.”
Price had just wrapped up her call with Bolan and rejoined the group in time to overhear the last exchange.
“Striker’s thinking the same thing,” she told Wethers. “AI assured him they’re looking into it.”
“All the same, let’s do our own checking,” Brognola said. “Did he have anything new to report?”
“A possible break, actually,” Price said. “A recon chopper came across someone lying wounded in the mountains near Jalalabad a couple hours ago. He was unconscious with multiple bullet wounds, but he was too far from where the ops team was attacked so they’re thinking maybe he’s part of that Taliban crew the ANA took out around the same time.”
“It’d be nice if that was the case,” Brognola said. “Especially if we can get him to talk.”
“It sounded to Striker like it’s pretty touch-and-go as to whether this guy will even pull through,” Price said. “They flew him to Bagram and he’s still in surgery. Apparently he’s got internal injuries and nearly bled out.”
“Let’s hope for the best,” Brognola said. “We could use a break.”
“One other thing,” Price added. “Striker wants carte blanche in terms of his next move. He wants to go with the first strong lead on where they took O’Brien’s body.”
“Not a problem,” the big Fed said. “I’m sure that whole situation is weighing on him.”
“‘No man left behind’? Yeah, I think it’s a concern for him,” Price said. “Can’t say as I blame him.”
“Me, either,” Kurtzman interjected, “but he was following that same code when he went to help the guys being ambushed. It’s not like he was retreating.”
“I’m sure he realizes that, but still…”
“C’mon folks,” Brognola said, stuffing the cigar in his shirt pocket so that he could have both hands free to roll up his sleeves. “We’ve got a big haystack to comb through, so let’s get cracking.”
“Will do,” Delahunt said. “I’m wondering, though…Given the situation over there, is the President still looking to make that photo op in Kabul next week?”
Brognola shook his head. “He’ll still be going to Istanbul for the NATO conference, but he’s scratched the side trip.”
“Smart move,” Delahunt said. “Last thing we need is the Taliban feathering their turbans with an assassination.”
5
Spin Range, Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan
As Brognola was rallying his cybercrew in the Stony Man Computer Room, halfway around the world, high in the arid mountains just north of Safed Koh Range, the enemy the SOG was trying to place in its sights was huddled in an inauspicious farm hut, with dirt floors and windows draped loosely with flaps of leopard skin to fend off the cold winter air. In the center of the room three men sat close together on mats set around a low, candlelit table, warming themselves with hot tea and steamed rice sprinkled with shaved bits of roast lamb. They spoke quietly, barely
