Frontier Fury Read online

  And if Laghari somehow managed to discover those responsible for the attack, Bahaar Jadoon would claim the credit, for assigning Laghari to investigate.

  It was what the Americans might call a win-win situation for the brigadier.

  And now, if only he could really find out why twelve of his men had died…

  HUSSEIN GORSHANI took his time driving along the poorly maintained two-lane blacktop that passed for a highway in the Pakistani hinterlands. Bolan slumped in the shotgun seat, trying to minimize his height compared to the driver’s, eyes alternately scanning the road ahead and the reflected image in his side mirror.

  So far, no one was chasing them, and they had seen no reinforcements rushing toward the battle site from the direction they were heading. The Executioner ticked off details in his mind that he had memorized about the opposition they might face, before they reached the Safed Koh range and began to scale Mount Khakwani.

  In addition to its massive standing army, Pakistan maintained five separate paramilitary forces, tasked to cover different geographical areas and aspects of national defense. Units of the 185,000-member Pakistan National Guard were scattered nationwide, officially divided into the Janbaz and Mujahid Forces, designed to supplement regular army units at need. The Pakistan Rangers, with 30,000 men under arms, were divided between Lahore and Karachi, and should not concern him. Likewise, the Mehran Force—some 25,000 men, restricted to the Sindh Province—would not be involved in Bolan’s mission. And he flatly dismissed the Maritime Security Agency, a coast guard operation with 2,500 sworn personnel.

  Only the Frontier Corps, acting in collaboration with the regular army, threatened to frustrate Bolan’s operation. It claimed 60,000 men, roughly divided between the North-West Frontier Province and neighboring Baluchistan, with command-rank officers reporting both to army headquarters and to the Ministry of States and Frontier Regions. Frontier Corps units could be “regularized” at need, in the event of war or other national emergencies, but they were fully capable of hunting on their own.

  The men Bolan and Gorshani had eliminated earlier were army regulars. Their uniforms, insignia and markings on their vehicles told Bolan that. With that in mind, he knew the army would be hunting them before long—if they weren’t, already—and headquarters would be pulling out all stops to do the job.

  It wouldn’t take them long to find Bolan’s abandoned parachute, but that would lead them nowhere. Prior to packing, it was stripped of any labels or identifying marks that might have helped his adversaries trace it to a manufacturer or seller. He supposed a lab could break down the fabric and trace it that way, taking days or weeks, but by then the Executioner’s mission would be finished.

  One way or the other.

  Even if Bolan failed, his corpse and gear would tell the Pakistanis nothing they could use.

  But Bolan didn’t plan to fail.

  He didn’t plan to die in Pakistan, chasing a pair of men who had evaded thousands for the past nine years.

  At home, he knew that questions had been raised concerning laggardly pursuit of those responsible for 9/11. Many thought that in this day of smart bombs and satellite photos that could read a newspaper headline or license plate number from outer space, locating fugitives had become a simple matter of pressing a button and watching an address appear.

  But hunting a determined fugitive who had resources of his own, and who could operate without reliance on “the grid,” was not much different in the twenty-first-century Middle East than it had been in the nineteenth-century Old West. Manhunters on the ground were still required to follow tracks, grill witnesses and sort through leads that might have been established to mislead them in the first place.

  And, along the way, they would sometimes find themselves engaged in battles to survive.

  It was a down-and-dirty job, but someone had to do it.

  And this day, it was Bolan’s turn.

  No sweat.

  It was the kind of job he’d done before, and doubtless would again—assuming he survived this time around.

  And at the bottom line, survival was his business.

  He had that much in common with Akram Ben Abd al-Bari and Ra’id Ibn Rashad—and the resemblance didn’t end there.

  In their own ways, all of them were executioners.

  “Ten miles to Sanjrani,” Gorshani said.

  Bolan nodded and closed his eyes.

  5

  Arzou Majabein never considered walking into army headquarters an option, although the man he was supposed to meet worked from an office there. His face adorned a Wanted poster in that building, and while the average soldier or policeman on the street made no attempt to locate him on any given day, if he strolled past them in the corridors of their own building, they would be forced to arrest him.

  Even in a nation such as Pakistan, which hovered on the brink of lawlessness, certain appearances had to be preserved.

  Majabein had telephoned his contact at the office, using the name they had agreed upon—Rahim Mengal—to leave a message. When the coded language had been stripped away, it called for Brigadier Bahaar Jadoon to meet him in the city’s central marketplace at six o’clock, for the delivery of an important message that could not be trusted to the telephone.

  Majabein did not tell Jadoon to wear civilian clothes. Such advice was unnecessary with a man of Jadoon’s advanced position and presumed intelligence.

  Of course, if he had truly been intelligent, Jadoon would not have owed his rank and ongoing existence to al Qaeda, but such was life.

  Majabein moved slowly through the market stalls, pretending to browse while he worked his way toward the selected rendezvous point. Anything that a person might need was on sale at the market—except, in this case, firearms. It would have embarrassed the army to have guns on show within blocks of its primary headquarters.

  Rawalpindi’s gun mart was a mile away, “concealed” within an open warehouse that did business around the clock.

  Which did not mean there were no guns in Rawalpindi’s marketplace. Majabein himself carried a Chinese Type 59 semiautomatic pistol, copied from the classic Russian Makarov in 9 mm. Beneath his loose shirt, he also concealed a hand grenade clipped to his belt.

  Just in case.

  Jadoon was waiting at the stall where knives were sold and sharpened when Majabein arrived. They went through the pantomime of a chance encounter, each supposing that the other had to have bodyguards—although, in fact, both men had come alone.

  Majabein spurned escorts because they slowed him down.

  Jadoon worried that anyone who shared his secret would betray him.

  After they had spent a moment admiring the knife maker’s work, the two men moved off through the crowd, appearing for all the world to be casual friends. If anyone had trailed them, close enough to overhear their conversation, the eavesdropper would have been surprised.

  “I bring a warning,” Majabein announced, once they were moving.

  “From…?”

  “Our masters.”

  “Ah.”

  “The Christians in Islamabad have grown too arrogant. They must be taught their proper place.”

  “And what do you propose.”

  “Not I,” Majabein said.

  “Of course. Your masters, then?”

  “And yours, lest you forget.”

  Was that a flare of hatred in Jadoon’s dark eyes? If so, it did not worry Majabein. He knew who held the reins in this relationship.

  “What sort of lesson?” Jadoon asked.

  “Tomorrow, at midday, a martyr is prepared to sacrifice himself for Allah where the infidels gather to pray. You know the place?”

  “Of course,” Jadoon replied.

  And well he should, since it had been the site of the 2002 attacks.

  “I tell you this,” Majabein said, “because our masters felt that you might wish to clear the area of the faithful prior to the event.”

  Jadoon drew back his head, peering at Majabein along
the steep slope of his nose. “And how would you suggest I accomplish that, without alerting others?” he inquired.

  “It should be relatively simple,” Majabein opined. “Perhaps a bit of street construction in the neighborhood would serve the purpose. Have a couple of your soldiers or policemen redirect shoppers to other stores until the time has passed.”

  “And the Christians?”

  “Of course, they must be granted access to their church,” Majabein said. “Admit them to the street, by all means. Otherwise, they might complain.”

  “You have suggested barring Muslims from the street. How would your martyr, then, be able to achieve his goal?”

  “Even the best guards make mistakes, sometimes.”

  “How would they know which Muslim not to notice?”

  “They will know him by his youth, his walk, his smile.”

  Jadoon was frowning underneath his thick mustache. “The timing of this incident,” he said, “is not…convenient.”

  “For whom?” Majabein asked sharply.

  “For anyone. Our government is under scrutiny by the Americans, concerning military aid agreements authorized by the prime minister. They still complain that we—meaning the state—grant sanctuary to known terrorists. If this event proceeds, it gives them one more thing to criticize and point to as evidence.”

  Majabein’s shrug betrayed no interest in Jadoon’s problems. “A martyr dies,” he said. “The case is solved.”

  “Crusaders want the men behind the martyr. You know that, as well as I do.”

  “Then, they must be disappointed, eh?”

  “I’m not sure how much longer I can cover for the men you serve,” Jadoon replied. “If I am ordered to proceed, I can’t defy field marshals, much less the prime minister himself.”

  “You owe the men we serve two lives,” Majabein said. “Have you forgotten that?”

  “I have forgotten nothing.”

  Pressing on as if Jadoon had not replied, Majabein said, “First, there was the woman. Just a worthless prostitute, I realize, but still…If we had not concealed her death, think of the scandal and its cost. You would have lost your precious job, your family—and then, most likely, your head. Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” Jadoon hissed.

  “And the officer who hated you? Who had pledged himself to sidetrack your promotion to lieutenant colonel and to any rank beyond it? Did the men we serve not make him disappear, as if by magic?”

  “So they did.” Jadoon sounded defeated now.

  “It’s good to be reminded of such things from time to time,” Majabein said. “I trust you have no problem with the timing of our martyr’s sacrifice, my friend?”

  “No problem,” Jadoon said.

  “In that case, rest assured that we have no problem with you.”

  Sanjrani Village, North-West Frontier Province

  THERE WAS NO SUCH thing as absolute security. In fact, Bolan had learned from personal experience that governments that focused single-mindedly on any given aspect of security—be it eradication of dissent, suppression of illegal immigration, or a “war” on contraband of any kind—not only failed, but actually drove lawbreakers to invent new means of violating rules and regulations.

  And so it was in Pakistan, created as a separate state after bloody riots between Muslims and Hindus in India. But the conflict was never truly settled. Pakistan and India had battled over the disputed Kashmir territory since 1947. There have been four full-scale wars and various guerrilla actions, including most recently a firebombing of the Samjhauta Express between Delhi and Lahore that killed sixty-eight passengers in February 2007.

  The relative quiet since then proved nothing—except that the action had shifted, at least in part, to Pakistan’s western border. There, abutting Afghanistan, al Qaeda and the Taliban were still fighting to regain their old ground and expel the Coalition troops who had broken their grip on Afghanistan in 2001.

  In such an atmosphere, where illegal gun sales flourished, many villages had become armed camps in order to survive. Sanjrani was a case in point, as Gorshani explained to Bolan.

  “The people there are not our enemies,” he said. “They hate al Qaeda. But, of course, they don’t know you.”

  “Do they know you?” Bolan inquired.

  “My mother came from Sanjrani. I still have family there.”

  “And they don’t mind you dropping by with strangers packing guns?”

  “They will not question it,” Gorshani said.

  Was there a hint of doubt around the driver’s eyes? Bolan preferred not to consider it, since he was counting on Sanjrani’s villagers to furnish the supplies they’d need for climbing the mountain.

  “No problem, sir. I’m sure of it,” Gorshani said.

  But did he speak for Bolan’s benefit or to just convince himself?

  The last two miles of highway leading to Sanjrani ran through forest that pressed close on either side. As afternoon faded to evening, shadows lurked among the trees and seemed to race along beside Gorshani’s SUV, pacing the vehicle. The optical illusion prompted Bolan to recall old paintings in which wolves pursued the passengers of horse-drawn sleighs and carriages.

  “Would there be any wolves around this area?” Bolan asked.

  “Wolves? Perhaps,” Gorshani said. “They’re found more often in Baluchistan, but sometimes here. Jackals are much more common, I must say.”

  Same thing in my world, Bolan thought, but kept it to himself.

  A moment later, Bolan saw the village up ahead. It was a smudge on the horizon at first, but rapidly grew until his eyes could pick out various specific buildings. People moved among the structures, disappearing as the SUV drew closer.

  “Anybody know that we were coming?” Bolan asked.

  “They know,” Gorshani said. “But until they have seen me, they don’t know who is approaching.”

  Right. Of course.

  “I hope they aren’t a bunch of nervous types,” Bolan said.

  “They won’t shoot without good reason,” his companion said. “I promise you.”

  “Well, let’s not give them any reason, then,” the Executioner replied.

  COLONEL SALIM Laghari was an officer who followed orders, even when he did not understand them fully—or when he did not believe that they made sense.

  For example, it made no sense, in his mind, that he should leave Rawalpindi to conduct a personal investigation of the ambush that had killed twelve soldiers in the North-West Frontier Province. But because he had been sent here by Brigadier Jadoon, Laghari meant to do the best job possible.

  In fact, he meant to find the criminals responsible for the attack and bring them in for trial as terrorists.

  Assuming that any survived the manhunt.

  Colonel Laghari had recognized Jadoon’s suspicion of him from the moment he was transferred to the brigadier’s command. In Laghari’s experience, that kind of instant, unprovoked reaction said something about a person’s character.

  Jadoon distrusted Laghari because he—Jadoon—had something to fear. There had to be something in his past, or in his present, that would damage him if it should be revealed. Colonel Laghari probably would not have tried to find out what that was, if Brigadier Jadoon had simply treated him as one more officer with ordinary duties to perform.

  But now…

  Suspect a spy, he thought, and sometimes you create a spy.

  Laghari had not found Jadoon’s dark secret yet, but he was looking. Slowly, cautiously, making no moves that would expose himself to risk, he burrowed from within, keeping his eyes and ears open. Someday, somehow, he would discover what the brigadier was frightened of coming to light.

  And when that day came, it would be his turn to give orders.

  In the meantime, though, Laghari went where he was told to go and did what he was told to do. In this case—tracking down the murderers of soldiers in the field—his orders coincided with his sense of duty.

  He had brought fo
ur men along with him, in one of the army’s Bell 407 light transport helicopters. Upon arrival in Peshawar, the provincial capital, Laghari had presented his orders from Brigadier Jadoon and commandeered another sixteen men, along with two M113 armored personnel carriers. He did not requisition a Jeep, in light of what had befallen the last one, preferring instead to ride with his men under armor.

  The M113s were tracked vehicles weighing twelve tons each and mounting Browning M2 .50-caliber machine guns on their turrets. The armor was 1.5-inches thick, versus .35 inches on the BTR-70 APC, while the M113 had a top speed of about 66 mph, against the BTR’s 50 mph. Both vehicles had two-man crews, with extra room for eleven passengers.

  Colonel Laghari believed he was prepared for anything.

  Except failure.

  Rolling along the potholed rural highway, buttoned up inside the APC, Laghari focused on the problem of Bahaar Jadoon in order to distract himself from his discomfort. The vehicles were air-conditioned, but the stream of tepid air did little to prevent Laghari and the other weapons-laden passengers from sweating. It had smelled like an unsanitary locker room when he had crawled through the hatch to take his hard, uncomfortable seat, and nothing had improved as the small convoy drove northward underneath a broiling sun.

  After considering the risks involved, Laghari had armed himself with a standard-issue pistol and a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun. He had qualified with both weapons in basic training, but advancement through the peacetime ranks had thus far spared Laghari from the need to fire at living targets. He was not concerned about his capability, however.

  If and when an adversary tried to kill him, Laghari was confident he’d have no problem defending himself.

  A crewman’s voice over the intercom informed Laghari that they had reached their destination. He let the other soldiers exit from the APC before him, then stepped out and saw the first of two wrecked military vehicles.