“Apply the Fourth Protocol to the subject as soon as possible.”
Accompanying the photo was information on the subject. Following a pre-arranged procedure, the man began making a series of telephone calls that would bring together the personnel closest to the job into an action team.
The numbered protocols were a system of threat assessments and responses. The first protocol was meant to deal with someone who had made a casual inquiry about the business. The appropriate response was a background check.
If the inquirer persisted, the response would be quiet intimidation, mainly a suggestion that questions would be turned over to the legal department. If that didn’t work, Protocol Three was invoked, calling for a physical diversion of some sort. A car would be run off the road. A house would be burned down.
The subject’s inquiry by itself did not merit more than level one. But Dr. Trask’s standing in the organization pushed the matter into the final category.
The Fourth Protocol.
For which the only remedy was speedy eradication.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The pilot’s voice came over the cabin intercom and announced that the 747 had been cleared for landing. Hawkins gazed out the window as if in a trance as the big plane dropped into the bowl formed by the jagged mountains that surrounded the three-thousand-year-old city.
Moments later, the massive landing gear clomped down on the tarmac at Kabul International Airport, or Khawaja Rawash, as the locals called it. The airport had had more lives than a roomful of cats. The Russians built it in the 1960s and controlled it for ten years before the Red Army left the country and the airport fell into the hands of various militias. The Taliban held the airport until 2001 when U.S. forces kicked them out.
Hawkins recognized the industrial-styled air traffic tower that the Soviets had constructed, but the newer terminal wasn’t there the last time he had seen the airport. Since the U.S. invasion, planes from a dozen or so civilian airlines were allowed to fly in and out, but the airport was still heavily used by the military. As the plane taxied to a cargo area, it passed rows of big transport planes and muscular helicopters.
The movable stairway was rolled up to the plane and Hawkins and Calvin descended to the tarmac. Hawkins stared off toward the mountains that were nearly invisible in the haze and filled his lungs. The whiff of cool, dry Afghan air triggered memories of his first arrival in the country as part of a SEAL team.
He exhaled. “Home sweet home.”
“Place still stinks,” Calvin grumbled.
Hawkins knew he wasn’t talking about odors.
Abby bustled down the gangway and broke up their remembrance of things past. “You guys look like a couple of lost tourists. May I remind you that we’re here to get a job done.”
Calvin had a thoughtful look in his eye as he watched Abby stride purposefully over to the plane’s cargo door. “That’s some woman. How come she never made admiral? Sure as hell acts like one.”
“Navy’s not ready for a female John Paul Jones. Especially a pretty one. Abby’s right about getting a job done, though. Let’s give her a hand.”
They followed Abby to a mobile loading platform that had been elevated to the cargo door. The desert vehicle was moved out of the plane first, then the dollies holding the submersible and dive equipment, and finally the boxes of firearms and survival gear.
Calvin peeled the protective foam off the Desert Patrol Vehicle. “Well, what do you think?” he said.
Hawkins let his eyes roam over the wing-shaped purple fiberglass side panels emblazoned with yellow flames, the wire-spoke aluminum wheels, the burnt red lay-down seats and the chrome bumpers and headlights. The rails and roll bar were decorated with orange and black stripes.
He folded his arms and said, a pained expression on his face, “Where did you get this road rocket, Cal?”
“It’s mine,” Calvin said. “I bought it from a military supplier and customized it.”
“I especially like the camouflage pattern and colors. Not bad.”
Calvin lovingly placed his hand on a side panel. “This baby’s more than ‘not bad,’ Hawk. I’ve squeezed some more oomph out of the 200 horsepower VW engine. You have to fight the steering wheel because of the torque, but she’ll do zero to sixty in less than ten seconds and get up to over a hundred miles per hour. I’ve built in added fuel capacity, so she’s good for more miles in between gas stations. What do you-all think, Abby?”
Abby gazed at the vehicle and pinched her chin. “I like it.”
Calvin gave her a brisk salute. “Obviously you are a woman of discrimination.”
Hawkins shook his head, then borrowed a fork lift to lift the plastic foam case containing Fido onto the vehicle’s luggage carrier where it was secured with bungee cords and rope. The other gear was tied down to running board racks on both sides.
“What time do you want the chopper tomorrow?” Abby said.
“I want to get off the ground while it’s still dark,” Hawkins said. “The sun comes up around five. How about three-thirty?”
She made a quick phone call and after a brief conversation said, “You’ve got it. Our ride will be here at three.” A smile replaced the no-nonsense set of her mouth. “The mission is all yours after that. You get the chance to boss me around.” She pecked both men on the cheek and pointed to the terminal. “VIP immigration is through that door.”
Abby had used her corporate clout and listed Hawkins and Calvin as employees of her company. They showed their passports, submitted to an automated bio data scan and entered the terminal. The scene was one of ordered chaos. There were long queues of departing passengers and dozens of armed Afghan security guards. Hawkins marveled at the duty-free boutiques that had opened since his last pass through.
Abby was leading the way to the exit, with Calvin and Hawkins right behind, when a big man cut between them. The red hair was streaked with gray, but Hawkins immediately recognized the jovial-tough face of Terrance Murphy. He caught him by the arm, and Murphy snapped his head around, a scowl on his wide face.
In a stage Irish brogue, Hawkins said, “Is it yourself off in such a rush, Mr. Murphy?”
The angry expression vanished and Murphy spread his lips in the toothy white smile that used to remind Hawkins of the Kennedy clan.
“Jesusmaryjoseph! Is that you, Hawk? And Calvin, too.”
Hawkins extended his hand. “Been a long time, Murph.”
“Indeed it has,” Murphy said, crunching Hawkins’ fingers, then Calvin’s in his vise-like grip.
Abby noticed that her friends had stopped. Hawkins waved her over and introduced her to Murphy.
“This is Terrance Murphy. Murph is a pal of ours from the old days,” Hawkins said.
Murphy gave Abby the full blast of his white smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Never expected to find you still here after all these years,” Calvin said.
Murphy gave out a big laugh. “Neither did I. I’m with the DEA. I left the government after you were transferred out and worked as a private contractor. Good money, but I got tired of body-guarding the embassy crowd and applied to be a drug cop. Everyone else from the old gang is either dead or gone home.”
“I saw Commander Kelly not too long ago,” Hawkins said. “He’s very much alive. He’s a weapons consultant for the Pentagon.”
“I could have done the same thing, but you know me. I’ve got to be where the action is.”
Hawkins swept his eyes around the terminal. “Things have changed.”
“Don’t let this fool you. It’s still like Dodge City out in the ‘burbs. The bad guys sneak in to raise hell whenever they get the chance. Which leads me to inquire what prompted you to leave your cushy job to come back to this garden spot?”