ISLAMABAD
HIS WORLD FLICKERED, A grainy old movie, hard to see. Kyle Swanson opened his eyes. He could smell smoke, hear screams, taste dirt, and see rubble. It was a struggle to breathe. The sniper thought for an instant that he was tied up, but as his senses focused, he found that he could move his arms, although they were entangled in some sort of sturdy fabric. His chest was tightly held, but his feet were free. Bits of memory returned, slowly at first, and then faster, accentuated by the hellish landscape before his eyes. He was upside down in a vehicle, and a seat harness was holding him firmly in place. The other material was only air bags that had filled on impact, then deflated. Kyle worked his fingers to the buckle of the belt, snapped it open, and fell onto his head. The combination of Wearing the helmet, the goggles, and body armor and being held securely inside the car by the web of safety belts and air bags had saved his life. Getting his feet into a firm position, he gave a strong heave of his shoulders and levered himself out through the destroyed windshield, rolled out from beneath the car, and came to his knees, hands on thighs, back straight, head up, trying to breathe in a place where there was no fresh air. He had a headache that seemed ready to split his skull.
The big goggles were safe windows to another world, and he brushed a glove over them to clean the lens. He was inside a thick, pulsing stew of smoke and pulverized concrete, dirt turned to dust and particles of civilization that had been blown to bits. The shifting, boiling cloud was everywhere, climbing the walls, channeling like a wave through the streets, scouring the ground with a savage wind.
My God, it’s 9/11!! I’m at Ground Zero!! Swanson shook his head hard to clear it. No, that can’t be. I’m in Islamabad. Something has happened. I need air. Another memory of 9/11 came to him. This cloud is poison, and if I eat it or breathe it, I die. Think, dammit, think!
The car. It had saved him once, and maybe the little gray sedan had another miracle. Swanson staggered to his feet, coughing hard, and felt his way along the overturned vehicle until he found the line of the trunk. It was crumpled from the rollover and subsequent impacts. Kyle grabbed the edge and yanked down hard, but there was no movement. Still locked. He pulled his pistol and fired twice, knocking the latch apart, and a gap appeared along the trunk line. He holstered the weapon and pushed down on the lid again. Please be there!
Despite its size, the Nissan was a police vehicle, which meant that it would be equipped to have a support role in emergency situations such as accidents and riots. When the trunk lid popped open, a large black nylon emergency kit spilled out at his feet, and Kyle tore open the lid. He burrowed through the contents until he found a smaller soft-pack container; unzipping it, he pulled out an old-style hooded gas mask with built-in lenses and a large round air filter on the left side. Although it was probably meant to protect the wearer against tear gas used against mobs, it was the same familiar M-40 full-face type that Kyle had used during desert sandstorms.
Also in the emergency kit was a plastic six-pack of sealed water bottles, and he tore one free, unscrewed the top, and sloshed the liquid over his face and eyes, drank a mouthful, and spat out streams of mud. He did it again, then took a deep hydrating drink that still tasted like dirt. He used a fingertip to clean his nostrils, then opened the straps on the mask while huffing out a couple of breaths to clear his lungs as much as possible. With a swipe of his hand, he got rid of his helmet and goggles and slipped into the mask. The protective hood fell around his shoulders, and when the straps were pulled tight, the rubberized mask sealed to his face. He could breathe again. Kyle put the helmet back on, leaned back against the wreckage, and sat down hard, sucking the filtered air deep, letting life flood back into his body.