Savage Deadlock

Malik hesitated, then indicated that Sandila continue.

“As part of my investigation,” the general said in a low voice, “I was at the laboratory where Dr. Yasmin conducted practical experiments. I made an inventory of the fissionable materials there. It was, I presumed, routine. Sadly not—there was some material missing. Only a flask, but that is enough.”

“Some mistake in the initial inventory, perhaps,” Malik murmured, sweating as the import of the general’s words hit him.

Sandila shook his head. “I had hoped so, too, but I had to be sure. I got your local men to go back to the villa and sweep it with a Geiger counter. There were anomalous readings...”

“She stole it?” Malik whispered.

“She certainly had the flask with her at some point. And it damn well isn’t there now. I had your boys take the villa to pieces. The father may well complain—”

Malik brushed that aside. “He can do what he likes, the lying bastard. There can be no protection or deference for him now. No politician will cover his ass, no matter how much money he has. Do you know what this means?”

“Of course I know what it means,” the general snapped. “That’s what I’m telling you. Shazana Yasmin went of her own free will, most likely to join up with a women’s group. There is only one I know of with any real strength in numbers and a desire to fight—the Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army. If they have her, and they also have some fissionable materials, then they have one hell of a bargaining tool to get whatever they demand.”

The major swore heavily. “It’s worse than that. If they’re still in Balochistan—”

“There have been no sightings to suggest anything else—”

“Then you realize they’re surrounded by several threats? There are any number of Islamist cells, Taliban units, Baloch rebels and other guerrilla forces in those hills. Even if they aren’t looking for those bloody women, chances are they’ll fall over them. And if that happens...”

“Then you see why this has to cause uproar in the government,” Sandila said softly. “They need to get behind us and act now. Because if any of those groups find Dr. Yasmin before we do, then they get that flask....”

* * *

FOR TWO WEEKS, Shazana Yasmin had been adjusting to life as a fugitive freedom fighter—at least, that was how she saw herself. The government of her country had let her down, and she was certain that she had the opportunity to put that right.

It was just that at the moment, it didn’t quite feel that way. The Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army, the PWLA, had its camp in the foothills of the mountains that dotted the Balochistan region. The hills had always been a harsh environment, but they also afforded shelter and sanctuary to those who endured the hardships to live there. Since she was a child and her father had first retreated to this region, Yasmin had grown up on the stories of the men who had defied the British Empire for so long in this rocky terrain.

She rose and washed herself, on the thirteenth morning since her supposed capture, in the clear stream that burbled between the rocks. Once clean, she stood and stretched her aching back while breathing deeply of the clean morning air.

Being a revolutionary and fighting for the rights of an oppressed minority was the kind of thing that had been romanticized in the books she had read as a student in the U.S.A. She had read about Berkeley, about student protest, about the idea that small but determined groups across the globe had been able to effect real change by going underground and using their wits and stealth to take on the monolith of government.

What those books had never described was the mind-numbing tedium of having nothing to do each day because “the time wasn’t right,” sitting around in camp and discussing tactics and plans and never coming to any real solution about a course of action. Bickering about rotis to cook and divvy up. Hunting and gathering fresh food to augment the supplies that had to be eked out until it was safe to make the next trip to the nearest town or village. Routine patrols in the hills that revealed nothing but goats and the odd, bewildered herdsman, and the ever-present sound of gunfire in the distance. Campfires on freezing cold nights and discussions of the future and how the country would change when emancipation was more than just a dream. The rhetoric usually kept Yasmin warm until she crawled into her tent, realizing that she had nothing in the cold of night but the certain knowledge that yet another day had passed with no actual progress.

All the while, lurking at the back of all this, like the gunfire that crackled at the edges of consciousness, there was the fear that a phalanx of militants would chance on their location. The PWLA was new, it was inexperienced and mostly made up of women like Yasmin who were from a relatively privileged and moneyed background, whose only experience of the arms they carried was in target practice. Those few who had run from their homes and fought fundamentalists and sometimes their own families in the bid to escape oppression had some familiarity with violence, and they tried to teach the others. But until the time came, no one in the camp knew how she would react.

It was terrifying if Yasmin stopped to think too hard about it. For the most part she tried to avoid such a train of thought. Still, on mornings like this it was hard to avoid. Soon the moment of decision would come. Would she be found wanting? Would any of them be found wanting?

She made her way back to the main section of the camp, exchanging a few words on the way. When she reached her tent, she checked the contents of her backpack. There, nestled among the few belongings she’d bought with her, was the sealed and insulated flask.

She took it out and sat looking at it, trying to guess what had happened since she’d left home. Her father and brother would have been given a tough time by the security service, but she figured they could ride it out. There had been no official communiqué from the PWLA to the government as yet, but it wouldn’t take too much for any half-intelligent security man to work out what was going on. She was sure her disappearance would be investigated, and the information she had gathered would eventually be noted. She had been careful, but she was no industrial spy. And then it would be only a short leap to the discovery that this flask was also missing.

With the security of the Pakistan nuclear program breached, she knew that there would be a panic in the corridors of power. This could only be good for her cause. She had little regard for the average intelligence of the political mind, and less so for the average military mind. First they would yell for revenge and mindless action. It was only after they had passed the initial flush of testosterone and adrenaline that they would start to think about what they could really do....

That was when the negotiations would begin.

The fear of biting reality gnawed at her gut.

It couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Three

The early morning wind was biting as it swept along the National Mall. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was running through the green. He felt sharp and awake, ready for Brognola’s brief about the current situation—whatever it was.

He soon had his chance. The big Fed was sitting at a bench they often used for outside meetings. Brognola was looking down, lost in thought, but the sound of the soldier’s pounding footsteps approaching caught his attention. He had two coffees, and as Bolan came to a halt, stretched and then sat down beside him, Brognola handed one over without a word.

Bolan sipped the warm liquid. “Whatever’s up, it must be serious to drag you out this time of the morning.”

Brognola stared out at the monuments for a moment before speaking. “Yes, something has come up. It’s a delicate one.”

Bolan chuckled. “It always is, Hal. Always...”

The big Fed rose to his feet and indicated that Bolan follow him. The two men walked along the Mall in silence. Taking his cue from Brognola, Bolan refrained from questions and took in the memorials and statues that they passed on their route. For each example of heroism and achievement, he knew there were hundreds that remained unremarked and unnoticed. Maybe it was better that way. Certainly there were times when it was better that the people had no idea of how close to disaster they had come.

He didn’t bother to speculate on what Brognola had lined up for him. A clear mind was always the most receptive.

Even so, he was a little surprised to see two men in Pakistani Armed Forces regalia seated in uncomfortable silence in the private room Brognola had rented in a Georgetown restaurant. From their body language, it was apparent that neither was pleased to be there and that they had a frosty relationship with each other. Hal introduced the older, bulkier man as Major Usman Malik of Pakistan Military Intelligence, and the younger as General Tariq Sandila. Bolan was interested to learn that the higher-ranking officer was younger than the major, and was clearly his subordinate. Neither man seemed happy about the inversion of ranks, and Bolan surmised that that might color whatever was about to come next.

Brognola took his seat. Malik leaned forward.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brognola, but you have not introduced me to your associate.” He bristled. “This is a most delicate matter, and I would like to know just who is included in the information chain.”

Bolan noticed the ghost of a smile and the slightest indication of a head shake from the younger man.

“Major,” Hal began carefully, “my colleague is operative...consultant. As such, discretion and security are paramount. It would be best if you knew as little as possible about the way we work. Just be assured that we do. After all, it was your National Command Authority who authorized your approach. Now what do you say we stop quibbling and get down to what’s important.”

“Very well. Sandila will brief you,” Malik snapped with barely disguised irritation. Bolan noted the dismissive way he had referred to the general.

Sandila seemed to be used to this. Ignoring the slight, he powered up the tablet on his lap and ran through his report briskly and efficiently, relaying the salient points.

Brognola was obviously familiar with this report, but Bolan listened attentively. He spoke only when Sandila had finished.

“Surely this is an internal matter?” he asked Brognola. “I thought it was policy not to interfere unless there were U.S. nationals endangered, or the interests of the administration were compromised.”

“That is the case,” Brognola answered smoothly. “And that is also the qualification. Shazana Yasmin became a naturalized U.S. citizen during her time studying at MIT. Her decision to return to Pakistan and work for her homeland doesn’t change this.”

Bolan’s eyebrow quirked. The scientist was obviously fiercely patriotic to Pakistan, and seeking naturalization in the U.S. had most likely been a matter of convenience.

He directed his next questions to Sandila. “General, do you have any reason to suspect that there may be a religious or ideological element to this?”

The younger of the Pakistani men smiled indulgently. “I know you in the West think that we are a hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism, but I think your own homeland security would have identified Dr. Yasmin as a potential threat if she were. I’m sure her defection isn’t based on religion. It is, however, ideological. And this is where I am concerned. Not because the PWLA is a strategic threat, but because its members are inexperienced. They are not, from what we know, trained fighters. Their vulnerability makes them dangerous.”

Bolan could see his point. These freedom fighters were fuelled by ideology, but they had no preparation for their chosen path, hiding out in a region that was rife with hardened Taliban fighters and other militant groups. Plus, they possessed both fissionable material and the knowledge to make it work. More than that, they were women. Their gender alone would enrage their opponents.

“Then our task is to locate Yasmin and bring her in, along with the fissionable material. How much, and how volatile?”

“A small flask, no larger than that coffee there,” Sandila replied, pointing to the large cup Brognola had carried in from the Mall. “As for its safety—well, that depends on the kind of treatment it receives in the wilds. A laboratory flask is lined and secure, designed to withstand a certain amount of punishment. But in the hands of someone who doesn’t really know what they’re doing?” He shrugged. “It could be a real problem. Prolonged exposure would have the inevitable effect.”

Bolan nodded in understanding. “Do you have any way to locate her? Does she have a cell?”

Sandila grinned. “She took her phone. At least, it wasn’t at the villa. But out there, you have no chance of getting a signal. If it had been that easy, I would have gone and gotten her myself a week ago. No, this requires a more specialized approach.”

Bolan acknowledged the implied compliment. “What about manpower? Will I be expected to work alone or will there be backup?”

Sandila was about to speak when Malik cut in. “You will have a detachment of men from the Special Service Wing. They have taken part in joint exercises with both your forces and the Chinese. They are our crack troops. You will be given command of six men who know the Balochistan region and the enemy forces who roam across it. They will add their specialist knowledge to yours.”

“That’s good,” Bolan commented, noting the look that Sandila cast at both him and Malik. “General, I would like to go over your report with you after this meeting, if I may. My associate here—” he indicated Brognola “—will need to finalize details with you, Major. Perhaps you could do this while General Sandila and I go over the report. It would save time if we attend to the smaller details while you deal with the important liaison.”

He caught Brognola’s glance from the corner of his eye. Brognola nodded slightly at Bolan and rose to his feet, gesturing to Malik. “Major, if you would come with me, then we can speak to the Foreign Affairs directorate about how this is handled. By the way, have you ever seen the Oval Office?”

“I have never had the opportunity to visit Washington before,” Malik said with a smug smile as he deferred to Brognola and allowed himself to be ushered from the room. Bolan could hear Brognola soft-soaping him as the door closed behind them. He turned to Sandila.

“Tell me, General, how come he’s your superior officer even though you outrank him?”

“Pakistan, like India, still has many hangovers from the days of Empire,” Sandila replied. “It will take a few more generations until that has been eradicated. You have to understand, the major is not a bad or stupid man per se. It’s just that he comes from an older tradition and believes fast-tracked officers who are seconded because of specialist criteria—even if they have a nominal superiority—are not to be trusted.”

“Your specialty?” Bolan queried.

“Physics. It was Dr. Yasmin’s position, as much as her gender, that was of importance. There is something I feel I must emphasize, Mister—” He paused.

“Stone. Colonel Stone,” he added for emphasis.

“Colonel, my point, for what it is worth, is this—the push for women’s emancipation is growing, and as it does, it stirs up feelings that had previously remained latent. The major is a strong example of this phenomenon. He can’t believe that a woman could take this action, despite the fact that next to her intellect, he is a child.” The general chuckled. “His hostility is restricted to mere words. Out in the field, when faced with women with guns, no matter what their orders, I could not say for certain how the attitudes of the average Pakistani man would reveal themselves. If the attitudes of the men I encountered during my investigation at the Yasmin villa were anything to go by...” He let the words hang in the air.

Bolan considered this. “I think you may well have a point, General. I’ll take note of it, even if your major would not. With that in mind, take me through your report again, only this time leave in the things that had to remain unsaid. Tell me everything you know concerning the search area.”

Sandila assented, looking relieved. He brought up the report on his tablet, and then added topographical maps of the region. “You want full details? I hope you have plenty of time, and that your chief can keep Major Malik occupied....”

Bolan grinned as he thought of Brognola having to keep the major amused. “Don’t worry, General. He’s used to difficult customers.”

Brognola proved the worth of this statement, as he kept Malik away from the restaurant for two and a half hours while Bolan went over the report carefully, closely questioning Sandila about every point raised. The general answered with candor and provided insight that Bolan stored away for future use. Then they turned to the topographical map. Sandila ran him through the general terrain and the known movements of both the militant cells that roamed the hills and the PWLA. He outlined possible routes of progress and points of encampment, and Bolan took mental note and ensured that the general added notation to a copy of the file that he would send to the soldier’s smartphone.

“What might help you, Mr. Stone, you are welcome to,” Sandila said when they were finished. “Yet it would benefit no one if Major Malik had access to these extra notes. He would not betray his country, but there are those around him who would not necessarily see the eradication of Dr. Yasmin as a betrayal.”

“I understand, General,” Bolan said. “Believe me, it’s not just your nation that has these issues.”

By the time Brognola returned with Malik, the two men in the private room were exchanging small talk. Malik, seeing this, grunted and raised his eyebrows as if to indicate his disgust at the willingness of underlings to slack off.

When the two Pakistani intelligence officers had departed to pick up the military flight that would take them back to their consulate in New York City, Brognola leaned back in his chair.

“Got everything you need, Striker?”

“General Sandila is a good soldier,” Bolan said. “Thorough. Uses his head, too.”

“I’ll prepare a route to take you out to Lahore, and from there you’ll be picked up by Malik’s men and taken to Quetta. It’s still a long hike from there to the region where Yasmin went missing, but at least you can pick up ordnance and your team.”

“About that,” Bolan said. “If Sandila is right, then I might be better flying solo at some point. That won’t sit well with Malik, though, and he could cause ripples.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Brognola replied, shaking his head. “Listen, Striker, I could see how Sandila felt about him, and after a couple of hours listening to the man, I understand.”

Bolan sighed. “As long as we’re on the same page, Hal.”

Brognola shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, about that, Striker...”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I think I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”

Brognola looked up at the ceiling. “It’s like this. Because the Pakistan NCA approached the U.S. military directly, rather than coming through Foreign Affairs, there was an extra layer of interference to run before the matter came to me. An extra layer that had something to say, and doesn’t want to relinquish that say.”

“Bureaucratic bull, Hal. It has nothing to do with me. I have a job to do, and although there’s nothing wrong with our military, they’re on display and there are things that they just can’t be seen to do that I can.”

Brognola grimaced. “I understand, Striker. Hell, I agree with you. But—and this is crucial—they have a very good case for keeping an eye on this. Yasmin may not want to come willingly. Okay, so you could just extract her like she was a captive, but that might make further negotiation with her difficult for both the Pakistani administration and for ourselves. However, what if there was someone with you who had worked alongside her at MIT? And what if that person was also female, and so more likely to be able to relate to the issues that drove Yasmin to such action?”

“Come on, Hal—it’s not about her being a woman, but are you seriously suggesting I take a civilian into what might as well be a war zone?”

Brognola coughed. “That’s the thing, Striker—the woman I have in mind isn’t a civilian. She’s a soldier. A serving officer. A little like General Sandila, she has a physics degree as well as a military rank. She’s a captain.”

“What kind of combat experience does she have?”

“Two tours of Afghanistan. She’s familiar with that part of the globe. Even if she hasn’t actually been into Balochistan, she does at least have an understanding of the territory, both physical and political.”

“It’s better, but it’s still not ideal.”

“It’s a done deal, Striker. She’s here, waiting. Captain Tamara Davis.”

Chapter Four

It happened on the sixteenth day. Maybe she was tiring of the wait and her mind was wandering? Maybe she was beginning to realize that idealistic dreams were one thing, but actually making them happen required a skill set that was completely alien to her? Whatever the reason, Yasmin had let her vigilance slip, and it was disastrous for the whole group.

Yasmin had been on night patrol. Along with Benazir Suri, a former politics student who had become radicalized while studying the Red Army Faction and believed that some of their tactics in 1970s Germany could be applied to Pakistan in the 2010s. It was dubious reasoning, in Yasmin’s opinion, but perhaps it was a measure of both her naivety and her desperate desire for change.

For both women, the harsh reality of living in a camp in the hills had been a wake-up call. Adjusting to rough living after a wealthy upbringing and academic life was proving to be hard. It might have seemed a little more worthwhile if their movement was gathering steam, but several of the women in the group—the villagers who had run from virtual slavery and who had the knowledge and skills that Suri and Yasmin sorely lacked—were frustratingly taciturn and patient. They were content to sit and wait.

The terrain around them was not the lush riverside that Yasmin had been used to. As they traveled farther from the river’s lifeblood, the streams became trickles that snaked in and out of rock, running too deep in places to be easily accessed. The steeply rising crags of rock made it hard to gain sustenance from the ground or seek shelter from the extremes of heat and cold. The moss, lichens and tufts of wiry grasses offered little for the emaciated goats that roamed the area. The few villages in the region scraped an existence off the land and the goats that young shepherds nervously gathered in, keen to avoid the wrath of any bandits who found camp and fought their desultory battles in the unforgiving landscape.

As the sun fell from the sky that evening, Yasmin and Suri started to tramp across the rocky paths and ravines that dotted the hillsides. There were ample hiding spots, but that also meant there were ample places for enemies to conceal themselves. Once the light had faded from the sky, the two women used only the moon and stars to guide them, perpetually praying for the night to remain cloudless as their eyes and senses had not had the lifetime of adjustment to the dark that the hill-born women had.

As they picked their way along the designated route, which circled the camp at a radius of half a klick, give or take the odd hundred meters to detour around impassable rock falls or clusters, they talked about what they wanted, and about their frustrations, punctuated by cursing as they stumbled, turned their ankles, and gashed and grazed themselves on terrain that seemed to mock their very presence.

“If we’re going to do anything other than rot out here and wait for a bunch of men to come and try to smack us down, then we need to take some kind of action soon,” Suri moaned as she sat on a rock and massaged an ankle. Even though they both wore stout walking boots and had their ankles bound for support and padding, they were still limping at the end of each night’s patrol.