BAGRAM AIR BASE
AFGHANISTAN
TUESDAY
THE CITATION SETTLED OUT of the predawn sky, blacked out even on the landing approach into Bagram Air Base. The mottled black-and-gray paint scheme blended seamlessly with the surrounding darkness. Cockpit avionics did most of the heavy work as the control tower cleared a path through all of the air and ground traffic. The plane whispered down onto a concrete runway that was almost ten thousand feet long, rolled to a stop, and scooted in behind a little tractor that guided the humming aircraft plane over to the Special Operations ramp, and then into a secure hangar. All interior lights had been turned off. Big doors rumbled closed, the lights came back on, and the engines shut down.
The ground crews jumped to work, preparing the bird for a quick turnaround. It was not the kind of plane that kept a strict schedule, and this was not a normal airport. This particular Citation was to be ready to go at a moment’s notice, with never an official flight plan on record. Everybody who needed to know about it would be advised at the proper time, given what they needed, and no more. Cargo manifests and passenger lists did not exist.
Two crewmen popped the hatch from the inside. They sauntered down the small staircase and walked a short distance from the plane, where they stopped and looked around while stretching their arms, twisting and bending to loosen the muscles that had cramped during the long trip. There were no salutes. The flight line workers gave the air crew no attention: just another couple of pilots.
A man in a dark suit appeared at the top of the stairs, and he reeked of authority. He stood motionless and looked around the vast hangar, but the angular face registered no emotion. It was only a moment of passing interest for the technicians, who did not pause in their jobs of servicing the plane. He was just another of the many VIPs who had passed through this special hangar over the years. Maybe a congressman or somebody. Who cared? A clean SUV cruised to the tip of the wing and stopped.
It was after he came down the stairs that things came to a momentary jarring halt, for a slender, beautiful blond woman lugging a small bag appeared in the doorway. Now here was a rare and agreeable sight for the grease monkeys, a real live white-skinned leggy American beauty wearing a dark blue pantsuit that emphasized her figure. The noise level fell perceptibly around the hangar. Every workman who had a chance to see her suddenly realized that he had been in Afghanistan too damned long. A dropped crescent wrench clanged against the concrete floor and brought them all back to life again.
An Army officer who had gotten out of the passenger side of the waiting vehicle came to attention and saluted the man, struggling to keep his eyes away from the blonde, wondering if she was also a VIP or just arm candy for the guy in the dark suit. “Welcome to Bagram, sir… ma’am,” he said. “This vehicle and its driver are yours for the duration of your stay.”
“Excellent, Captain,” the man growled. He immediately climbed into the backseat of the big black Ford Expedition SUV. He said nothing to the driver, who was expected to already have instructions.
Lauren Carson smiled politely at the captain. She refused his offer of help with her bag, and at the vehicle she bent over slightly, snapped shut the handle and the little wheels, and used both hands to heave the bag into the backseat. The man pulled it in. She climbed in, and the captain closed the door, the darkened windows shutting off the view of her golden hair. The driver turned on the big 5.4L Triton V8 engine and dropped the automatic transmission into gear, and the SUV drove out through a smaller door in the hangar.
While Lauren had diverted attention, the two fliers who had been the first off the plane split up. One headed for a pilots’ lounge at the end of the building. The taller man pulled at the rumpled seat of his olive green flight suit, put on a blue Air Force campaign cap bearing the silver eagle of a full colonel, and casually walked out into the breaking dawn. It was getting cold, and the temperature stung his cheeks. An old brown Army Humvee was waiting, and he got inside and shut the cloth door.
The driver looked at him with open contempt. “You’re no more an Air Force bird colonel than I’m the Little Mermaid,” he said. “In fact, I think you’re a goddam spook.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the new passenger replied. “That’s a pretty smart mouth for a shit-eating Marine to use when talking to his betters.” Jim Hall’s face split into a grin. “Hello, Kyle. Good to see you again.” He reached out a hand.
Kyle Swanson shook hands with his friend, then cranked the Humvee. “Hello, Jimmy. We going to cause some trouble?”
“Oh, yeah, my boy. Bet the farm on that. Now drive.”
LAUREN CARSON HAD MADE several trips with her boss to Iraq, but this was her first time in Afghanistan. The huge mountain range that reached into the brightening sky in the east like a huge wall took her breath away. Then she compared that ageless wonder with the military base. Remarkable. It was also huge, a place that was becoming a strange, small city with a first-class airport. The SUV driver had turned the heater on low to fight the chilly morning air. Bagram was five thousand feet above sea level, and snow would soon layer those huge Hindu Kush mountains overlooking the base. The arid peaks would be impassable within a couple of months.
The senior commander at Bagram was a U.S. Army two-star, the top slot of a chain of command that looked like a spider’s web more than an efficient flow chart. Other branches of the American armed services were there, and U.S. Air Force planes of all sizes were the predominant feature. Fleets of construction vehicles were busy beneath the racks of bright lights, biting and shaping more land so Bagram could continue to expand. The American war that had started in Afghanistan after 9/11, then shifted to Iraq, then heated up again in Afghanistan was undergoing a new phase as tensions grew in Pakistan. The strategic location of Bagram made it essential to any and all of those efforts.
Lauren felt that the huge base was coiled and tense with an alertness that seemed to her to be beyond the normal military sense of security. Off to her left, an F-15 Strike Eagle roared into the violet sky on tails of blue-white fire, with ribbons of white mist streaming back from the wings that fought for lift in the thin air. It was slung heavy with bombs. This was Afghanistan, not Arkansas, and war was just over the horizon.
Her SUV turned a corner away from a neat street of tentlike buildings and pulled to a halt at a square fortified position from which a helmeted soldier behind a.50 caliber machine gun kept watch as another guard, in a full armored vest and camo battle gear, came forward. The driver rolled down his window, and the guard peered inside. “Identification, please,” he said.
The escort officer had collected the military ID cards for himself, the driver, and the man in the dark suit. Lauren handed over the leather wallet containing her CIA creds. The soldier checked them, let his eyes linger for a moment on her face, then returned her badge and the IDs. “Welcome to Bagram, Ms. Carson. They’re expecting you inside,” he said, then to the driver, “Neil, park over there behind the Hummer.”
Lauren put on her game face. “No need for anyone to get out,” she told the driver and the escort officer. “I can open a door by myself.” The mystery man in the dark suit would stay in the vehicle and be driven to another safe building to complete the deception. He actually was the second member of the Citation’s flight crew and just wanted to dump the monkey suit and get a shower, some chow, and some sleep before having to fly again.
KYLE SWANSON HAD DRIVEN faster than the SUV, and he and Jim Hall were already standing with coffee mugs in hand and talking when Lauren Carson came through the door. Swanson was seldom surprised by anything, but the moment that his blue-gray eyes met her blues was like the flash of a camera, a frozen moment of unexpected emotion. He sucked in every detail, from her stylish shoes to the small silver necklace and lack of makeup. She doesn’t need makeup, he thought. If I was God, I wouldn’t change a thing. Lauren hesitated for only a fraction of a second, caught off balance by her own feelings. Although there was only one other person in the room, it was as if a large crowd had parted to open a path between them, and they both instantly knew in that first glance that their lives were going to be different.
“Kyle, meet Lauren Carson, who runs me and my entire shop like we were a bunch of slaves pulling oars. Lauren, this is Kyle Swanson, the guy I’ve told you so much about.” Jim Hall could almost see the electricity buzzing between these two. It’s only been three seconds and they already should go get a motel room.
“Good morning, Ms. Carson. Welcome to Afghanistan.” Kyle took a step forward and reached out his hand, and she took it in her own. Her skin was soft, but her grip was firm.
Ordinarily, Lauren could just turn on her blazing Miss Arkansas smile and dazzle a new man with her beauty. This time, she had to fight to keep from blushing. His strength was understated, but obviously he could have broken her hand with anything more than a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Gunny Swanson. I look forward to working with you.” There was a slight southern accent. She intentionally broke the moment and went to the big coffee urn on a table and filled a mug. Black, no sugar. Now what? She looked over at Jim, who seemed to be enjoying their discomfort as the initial sizzle came under control.
They all sat down, and Kyle was glad that there was an entire table between himself and this new girl. Woman. Damn, fool, think of something to say.
“Well, I finally win,” said Jim Hall, breaking the ice for them. “I never lose. Sometimes it just takes longer.”
“Win what?” Lauren asked, blowing on the scalding coffee. The pout of her lips was totally sensual to Swanson.
“Yeah,” he echoed dumbly. “Win what?”
“Fifteen years ago, mate. Rocket Mountain, when we tried to recruit you.”
Lauren reacted with mock surprise and touched her heart with her hand. She turned to face Kyle, and he saw the first glimmer of a smile. “You mean my legendary boss Jim Hall failed an assignment? Amazing. Tell me. Tell me, so I can spread some gossip back at the shop.”
“I didn’t fail anything. I never lose. You know that.”
“Tell me the story and let me be the judge.”
Kyle shook his head. He remembered the incident well.