“Got bored with cars. I’ve got a Sopworth and a SPAD. Still air worthy. Has anyone ever tried to fly this crate?”
“No, but my mechanics are the best and they swear it is fully operable.” He moved toward a large metal storage locker and opened the doors. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
The wall locker held six long metal boxes that were identical in size and color. Stenciled on the outside of the olive-drab containers were the words: Property of the U.S.A. At Amir’s direction, the two men picked up a container and placed it on the floor. Amir removed the lid to reveal a Stinger missile and launcher carefully packed in foam peanuts.
Calvin lifted the missile out of the container.
The Stinger surface-to-air was only sixty inches long and a few inches in diameter, and weighed just over thirty pounds. But as the Soviets had learned to their dismay, the shoulder-fired projectile that the CIA supplied to the mujahideen could knock an aircraft out of the air at a range of nearly three miles and an altitude of more than twelve thousand feet.
“There are more than enough missiles here to shoot down our enemies,” Amir said.
“Not so fast,” Calvin said. “Shelf life of these babies is seven years. The batteries are probably dead and there could be mechanical degradation.”
Calvin spent a few minutes examining each Stinger and its serial number.
Hawkins saw the slow shake of Calvin’s head.
“What’s wrong, Cal?”
“The news ain’t good. These are all from the same lot.”
“Are you saying they’re useless?” Amir said.
“Probably, unless we can throw these puppies at the choppers.”
“I’ve heard about degraded Stingers being rejuvenated,” Hawkins said.
“Me, too. I’d be willing to give it a try.”
They carried the Stingers back to the car and placed them in the rear seat. Calvin found batteries and electrical tools in a workshop. A pickup truck came screaming along the road to the hangar and braked to a stop. One of Amir’s men jumped out and started shouting. Amir turned to Hawkins and Calvin.
“The helicopters have returned,” he said.
Abby felt the air vibrating and a second later, three Cobra gunships flashed overhead. They followed the road for a quarter of a mile or so, then stopped and pivoted, three abreast, their Gatling guns facing toward the village procession.
Abby slammed on the brakes and stood up in the open car.
The three aircraft hovered a hundred feet above the ground like wolves about to close in on a wounded deer.
“What should we do?” Cait said.
“Not much we can do. They’ll make the first move.”
The seconds ticked by like years, then the gunships tilted down so that their guns faced the ground. They advanced at an angle and fired their guns in bursts, moving slowly ahead, the torrent of bullets kicking up fountains of dirt. They stopped firing when the fusillade was less than fifty feet from the jeep.
Abby stared at the narrow aircraft, thinking how ugly they were. “They’re herding us.”
“What?”
“Get out of the jeep,” Abby said. “Start walking back. Tell everyone in line to get out of their cars and trucks.”
“They’ll kill us.”
“Maybe. They could have wiped us out with a rear attack, though. Tell the guards not to fire at the choppers. Please help me, Cait.”
They got out of the jeep and began to walk back along the line. Cait shouted in Pashto for people to abandon their vehicles. As the villagers slowly made their way back to the compound, only then did the Cobras stop firing their guns.
The sheik was visibly shaken by the news that his family was in danger and didn’t protest when Hawkins slid behind the wheel of the touring car and told him to get in the back. Calvin was hanging on the running board when Hawkins took off, but he managed to get into the front seat.
They had traveled less than a mile when they heard the sound of guns and explosions. The villagers were under attack. They’d be caught in the open with no chance to escape. Black smoke billowed into the air. Hawkins had no desire to witness the scene he conjured up in his imagination, but he pushed the accelerator to the floor. Moments later, they rounded the base of a low hill.
The villagers were trekking in their direction, some running, some walking. Three Cobra gunships followed, flying abreast at an altitude of a couple of hundred feet, firing into the ground behind the villagers, herding them as if they were a flock of frightened sheep. The Blackhawk was hovering behind the Cobras. Leading the line were Abby and Cait. Nagia and her daughter, and the elderly servants were walking behind them. In the distance, the cars and trucks were ablaze.
Hawkins drove up to the head of the parade. He told Abby and the other women to get in, then he and Calvin got out to make room. Amir joined them and despite his limp, led his villagers back to the village on foot. The villagers flooded back into the settlement in a reverse version of the bedlam that had ensued during the evacuation. Amir ordered his men to get the women and children under cover. Cait and Abby went back to Amir’s house with the family and staff.
The gunships flew over the village with an ear-shattering clatter, broke formation and landed out of sight. Hawkins and Calvin climbed to the top floor of the house and peered through a window. The Cobras were on opposite sides and to the rear of the village.
The Blackhawk made a slow circle over the village and set down a few hundred yards from the main village gate. Hawkins and Calvin quickly descended to the veranda.
“What did you see?” Amir asked.
“The Cobras have cut off escape on three sides,” Hawkins said. “The Blackhawk is sitting just outside the front gate. Let’s see what they’re up to.”
Hawkins and Calvin drove toward the gate and parked behind an abandoned house. Amir followed with three men. Hawkins put his back flat against the wall of the house and edged around the corner. He watched as the chopper’s rotors spun to a stop, saw the door open and a man get out.
Calvin was waiting for all hell to break out, but the only sound was the oath of surprise that came from Hawkins’ lips.
“What the hell’s going on?” Calvin asked.
Professor Saleem was walking cautiously toward the village with a white flag in his hand.
“I think they want to surrender,” Hawkins said.
CHAPTER FORTY
Professor Saleem approached the silent village, walking with the stiff-legged gait of a condemned prisoner being led to the gallows. He gulped the crisp Afghan air into his lungs, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was about to suffocate. Sweat poured down his face, and he was nearly paralyzed with fear. He was acutely aware of Marzak in the helicopter behind him watching his every move. He didn’t want to think about how many weapons behind the compound’s walls were pointed his way.
His heart hammered away in his chest, and he had a forlorn hope that he might go into cardiac arrest. He was surprised that he hadn’t died of heart failure when the attack on the vehicles was called off at the last second and again when it seemed the fleeing villagers would be massacred.
Marzak hadn’t killed the villagers, seeing them as bargaining chips to persuade Hawkins to dive for the treasure. The professor volunteered to deliver the offer.
Saleem had fashioned a white flag from a strip of bandage from the helicopter’s first aid kit. He whipped the streamer back and forth in his hand as he walked.
He was at the point where he would almost rather die than take another step, when a figure emerged from the village and began walking toward him with a slow ambling pace. The man wore tribal costume, but the professor immediately recognized the craggy features and the bark-like complexion under the mushroom-shaped hat. Matt Hawkins. The man looks like a walking tree, he thought.